


Like A Lonely House

by TheSecretAdmirer



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-05-21 02:31:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSecretAdmirer/pseuds/TheSecretAdmirer
Summary: Fifty years after the Hybernian War, Prythian has settled into a sleepy peace, and nowhere is this peace more evident than in the Night Court. Feyre and Rhysand continue to rule like demigods from their seat of power in Velaris, Elain and Azriel are newly married and quietly expecting their first child, and Mor has moved to Winter to be with her mate, Ellaria, sister of the newly-minted High Lady. Nesta and Cassian have changed as well, and after fifty years of barbed words and heated glances, they stand on a precipice of something that scares and excites them both. However, it only takes one night of weakness on Cassian’s part to change everything, and with a young Illyrian prince gaining power in the North, Nesta agrees to an marriage alliance, both to protect her family and get her as far away from Cassian as possible. As things unravel between them, Cassian begins to suspect there is something more deliberate seeking to keep them apart, and he struggles to uncover the truth and win Nesta back before it’s too late.





	1. Chapter One

** Like A Lonely House **

> "So I wait for you like a lonely house
> 
> till you will see me again and live in me.
> 
> Till then my windows ache.”
> 
> -Pablo Neruda

* * *

 

** Chapter One **

* * *

Cassian lay in his bed in Velaris, dreaming—as he so often did—of Nesta Archeron. In fact, for the last fifty years, he’d dreamt of little else. Before Starfall, they had simply been filled with vague, inchoate notions of desire, musings on what her skin tasted like, or the timbre of her laugh, which he’d still never heard, even after all this time.

Since Starfall, though, they were so much more vivid, colored by the memories of what he could no longer deny had been the best night of his life. 

Even now, nearly three weeks later, he was still reliving every detail, starting with the moment she’d appeared wearing that devastating velvet gown and he’d forgotten his own name. He’d immediately set down his glass at seeing her, so intoxicated by her presence that Rhys’s expensive wine had gone flat in his mouth.

His male instincts had immediately begun roaring at him to go to her, to take her into his arms and never let her go. He knew better, though. Nesta was not a thing to hold or possess—she was a phenomenon, a force a nature, the kind of tempest one could only weather with patience and a healthy respect for its unsheathed fury.

He’d made the mistake of trying to push her before, after the war in Hybern. He’d been desperate then, and sought to coax an emotional response to reassure himself that she’d felt the same thing he had when they’d been in that clearing, ready to die in one another’s arms. He’d earned nearly a decade of stony silence for his troubles, and learned never to seek anything she did not freely offer.

So when she’d appeared at the top of the stairs on Starfall, he’d forced himself not to stare, forced himself to smile then turn away. He’d sworn over forty years ago that he would not make the mistake of pushing her again, and though that promise grew heavy enough to break his back as the evening wore on, he bore it gladly. For Nesta, he would wait the length of an eternity. Longer, perhaps.

Luckily for Cassian, he’d only had to wait until the first of the stars fell. He’d scented her before he’d felt her appear at his side, and his heart had beat like an Illyrian drum in his chest, its rhythm one he knew well. It was a call to arms, a promise of victory for any brave enough to dare. He had not looked at her as she drew closer, but he’d felt her, and when her hand brushed his, he’d forgotten to breathe.

Nesta had always  seemed to Cassian like an approaching thunderhead, fearsome and jagged. On Starfall, gazing up at him the way she had on that balcony, he found her to be the most breathtaking of storms, the kind which washed everything clean and left the world changed in its wake.

After a time of watching the stars fall in silence, Nesta had turned to him, and demanded in her usual, imperious tone, “dance with me.”

And Cassian had. He’d danced with her all night, and after they’d grown tired of dancing, they talked in the way they sometimes did when they were alone, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Cassian felt his axis tilting as she indulged in his playful speculation of who would go home with whom, and felt it snap clean in two when—after a less than impressive joke he made—she laughed. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard, and it had flooded into every part of him until he was drowning in her delight.

He’d kissed her even before the sound had fully faded, and something in him trilled when her lips went pliant under his. His knees had gone weak when she opened her mouth in invitation, and he’d grown dizzy when she pressed farther into him, her long, elegant fingers tangling in his hair with such enthusiasm that it had come undone, the leather strap he’d used to tie it back fluttering uselessly to the ground.

Cassian had tried to memorize everything that happened after that, every place her lips touched after she’d instructed him to fly them back to his townhouse—the one Rhys had long ago insisted he buy and the one which he was now thanking the gods he had—but everything after she’d taken her dress off had been a blur.

No, not a blur. That implied that it was somehow messy or muddled. The night had been a kaleidoscope, a fractured rainbow through which Cassian watched the present colliding with both past and future. As he’d undressed her and kissed every bare inch of her skin, he could see both the thorny, headstrong human woman he’d first met and the tender female who lay beneath all that armor. The combination had been enough to break his heart and remake it in her image, molding so perfectly around who she was that he knew it would never love another.

Her taste had been ambrosia, and her body the most exquisite torture he’d ever endured. He’d felt himself unraveling the minute he’d sunk into her delicious heat, and felt something far grander than pleasure barrel into him when he’d released inside her that first time. He’d known exactly what the feeling was when she’d been astride him the second time, and after the third time, draped over her back as she’d lain limp with pleasure, it had taken everything in him not to say it out loud.

Cassian felt his body react to the memory even half-asleep, and he blindly reached for the pillow that still smelled like her, the one she’d been laying on the next morning when she’d smiled at him and touched his cheek, a confirmation that she hadn’t regretted all they’d done.

“Come back to me the minute you return,” he’d begged her. “We have so much to talk about.”

She hadn’t said she would, but he hadn’t really expected her to. Nesta was not one to make promises, though she’d always been one to keep them. But he’d known with that final kiss she given him before she’d left that this time, she wouldn’t run away.

Cassian turned in his sleep—warmed by the memory of her in his arms—before a sharp wrongness hit him in his gut, forcing him awake. He bolted up, groaning at the swollen pain in his head before nearly gagging on the scent that assailed him. It was sweet and female, but it was not Nesta’s, and it had every hair standing up on his body in protest.

Cassian blearily noted he was not in his own room before glancing over in horror at the naked female sprawled out next to him, her midnight hair fanned over the pillow. Cassian looked down to realize that he, too, was naked, and one inhale told him what they’d done.

What he’d done. Oh  _gods_.

He heaved, feeling as if he might physically be sick. Surely this couldn’t be happening. This was a dream, some horrific nightmare born from his missing Nesta and his enduring fear of losing her.

It wasn’t, though. The pounding headache told him as much. He was awake, and this was very much real.

Cassian swore and staggered to his feet, dry heaving at what was clearly the result of catastrophic overindulgence in wine and spirits. How could he have let this happen? How could he possibly gotten drunk enough that he—

His bedmate stirred at the commotion, turning onto her side to flash him a sleepy smile. She was pretty, he supposed, though every part of her—every feature that wasn’t Nesta’s—felt wrong.

“You’re an early riser,” she commented, pushing her hair off her brow. “Dawn’s not for another hour yet.”

“Who the hell are you?” Cassian croaked in reply, holding up a hand to shield her breasts from view as he tripped into his own trousers.

She gave a soft frown, pulling the sheet up to cover herself.

“Not exactly what a female wants to hear first thing in the morning. I don’t remember you being quite so thorny last night.”

“Don’t play with me,” he snapped. He could feel his composure unraveling, though whether it was into panic or rage, he couldn’t tell. “What happened last night?”

The female gave a dry, unamused laugh, casting her eyes meaningfully towards the tangle of sheets on the bed.

“You truly don’t remember? I would have thought that much was obvious.”

Cassian gave a pained growl. Nesta. Oh  _gods_ , Nesta. She was due home from Neva this morning. How would he ever explain—

“I have no memory of any of this. What did you do to me?”

“Nothing you didn’t ask me to,” she said, and he could feel her growing wary, defensive. He couldn’t say he totally blamed her; Illyrians often made the High Fae nervous, and he was bigger and meaner than most.

“Don’t lie to me!” he snarled, snatching one of his forgotten daggers from the floor and unsheathing it in a flick.

“I’m not!” she said, scent tainted by a foul-smelling fear now as she scrambled off the opposite side of the bed. “I—we met at Rita’s last night! We had a few drinks, but I—“ she broke off, one hand raised in a placatory gesture as she clutched the sheet to her chest with the other, tightly enough that her knuckles had gone bone white. “It was very much consensual!”

“Then why don’t I remember you?” he demanded.

He could barely hear her reply over the roaring in his ears, because even as he said it, he felt tendrils of memory—night-dark and oily—slithering back to him. Throwing back drink after drink at the bar, laughter and dancing and hands on hips. Lips and teeth scraping against his skin as clothing was ripped off. He glanced up, panicked. He might not have remembered this female’s face, but he could certainly remember what they’d done together.

Some savage Illyrian instinct was roaring at Cassian to gut her for the insult, even knowing it wasn’t really her fault. Whatever, they’d done, he’d clearly been a willing participant. Still, he bared his teeth at her in a feral display, and she whimpered.

“I don’t know!” the female was saying, and there were tears in her eyes now. “I don’t know! Just please, don’t hurt me!”

Cassian didn’t even register loosening his grip on the blade, and he only realized he’d dropped it when it clattered to the floor. He could feel everything he’d build—everything he’d spent fifty years hoping for—crumbling to ash, and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to roar or fall down and weep.

“Oh gods,” he panted, driving his hands into his hair. “Oh gods, what have I done?”

“I—“ the female choked, still backing away from him. “You told me that you were unmated, and you aren’t wearing a wedding band. I—“

He wasn’t listening.

Oh gods, what would he ever say to Nesta? After everything that happened on Starfall, how could he ever explain this to her?

An acrid self loathing began bubbling in his gut, and combined with all the wine he’d clearly drank, it was enough to make him sick.

From the first moment he’d met her, Nesta had been the only thing he’d wanted. He couldn’t begin to understand, even sickeningly drunk, how he could have ever betrayed that, or her.

But he had, he realized. Somehow, in his loneliness and folly, he’d bedded someone else. When they were young, Rhys had teased Cassian his cock would get him into trouble bigger than he could manage, and it had once, to disastrous consequences. How he’d let it happen again, he didn’t know, nor did he know how he’d ever forgive himself for it. If this cost him Nesta, he—

“I have to go,” he choked, pawing through the rumpled bedsheets for his tunic. They were soaked with the too-sweet scent of carnal exertions, and he fought down another gag. He had to bathe, had to wash that horrifying smell—

“Where are we? What part of the city?”

“North bank,” the female said, backed nearly into the corner now. “The Corona District.”

Cassian swore. It was at the complete opposite end of Velaris. He wasn’t sure he could stomach the flight with her scent all over him. Wildly, he glanced around for his boots to know avail before tearing open the window and flexing his wings. He winced as the wind touched the delicate nail marks scored down each inner curve, right in the most sensitive spot. This female wasn’t Illyrian; had he told her where to touch him? The thought made him sick.

“Tell no one of this,” he snarled over his shoulder, and she gave only a vague whimper of acknowledgment before he was through the frame and in the sky.

He flew with a fury that he hadn’t known since the world had found peace, nothing more than a dark comet as he pushed himself harder and harder, faster and faster. Soon he found himself barely able to breathe, but it was a welcome distraction from the shame that had coiled in his gut, loaded to spring.

His thoughts were a jumble, but no matter where they ricocheted, he found they always seemed to snap back to the exact same place: what was he going to say to Nesta when he saw her? He imagined himself falling to his knees and begging for her forgiveness; it would never be enough, and he knew it.

Nesta was a pillar of steel in all things but this. Rhys had often spit that she had a heart of stone, but Cassian had seen her heart—held it in his hands that night on Starfall—and knew how tender and fragile it really was. She had trusted him enough to let him past all the protections she’d build around herself, and he’d repaid that trust with treachery, the likes of which he knew she would never— _could_ never—forgive.

Where could he go, then? What could he do? He had to tell her, but he also had to find a way to fix this. He genuinely thought he might die if he lost her now. Though, he reasoned, he was no longer sure he deserved her, even if he could somehow manage to convince her not to cut his balls off and drown him in the Sidra.

He was still locked on this same barbed wheel of panic, anger, and regret and when he landed on the cobblestones in front his townhouse, just in time to spot Nesta rising to her feet.

* * *

Nesta didn’t know why she’d stayed as long as she had. It was a thing she’d promised herself she’d never do—the woman she’d promised herself she’d never be—and yet here she was, sitting on the steps of Cassian’s darkened apartment, waiting for him as a vile self-loathing unfurled in her gut. She’d been accused many times of having a heart of stone, but the truth was that her heart was brittle glass, fragile enough that it would shatter under the slightest pressure. It was what lay at the core of all her fire and rage—a fragility that made her sick.

She despised herself for it, and for the weakness buried beneath all the pretenses of hatred and distain. She’d denied it to anyone who dared ask, but when she was alone Nesta felt that isolation claw at her. She’d been sick with envy watching her sisters fall in love, and only her pride had kept her from admitting it. But pride, she was finding, was a miserable companion. It was prone to selfish whim, and abandoned her the minute she was alone.

It was why she’d finally decided to let Cassian in—because she  _was_ lonely, and because he’d spent fifty years showing her that he could handle her brittle heart in a way it wouldn’t break.

It was breaking now, though.

He’d begged her the morning she’d left to come to him the minute she arrived back from Neva, but now he was nowhere to be found.  _We have a lot to talk about_ , he’d said, and yet he wasn’t here to greet her as he’d promised. She considered going to the villa and asking Feyre if she knew where he was, but pride—ever the cruel master—kept Nesta leashed to the spot. It would only allow her to remain for another minute, she knew, and if he didn’t show, it would whip her bloody for her folly.

She tried not to think about any of it as she sat shivering in the pre-dawn chill, about the way it had felt when he’d kissed her the first time, and the way every part of her had come alive at the very first touch of his tongue between her legs. She’d had a good deal of lovers over the decades, but the sex with Cassian had been so much better then she ever even realized sex could be. In the morning, after they’d found their way into another soft, heated coupling still half asleep, she’d known why: with the other males, the sex had meant nothing; with Cassian, it had meant everything.

That night had felt like the culmination of something that had been beating under her skin since the moment she’d laid eyes on him, handsome and wild, fifty years ago. It was that same latent beast that had made her shield his body with her own: a bone-deep understanding that if he was to die, she wanted to die with him. She’d seen in his eyes as they lain side by side the next morning that he’d felt it too, and she knew it that moment just what it was.

In the end, Nesta lasted another ten minutes on the step before finally rising, wiping a hot tear from her cheek and summoning the rage—her only weapon against her weakness—to dull the ache. Perhaps he had a good reason for not being here, perhaps he didn’t; Nesta told herself she didn’t care either way. It wasn’t true, though, and she knew it. She’d ceded the pretense that he didn’t mean something to her on Starfall, and even now, with her pride roaring at her to punish him for making her wait, she couldn’t bring herself to regret what she’d given up. In truth, it was an intimacy she’d been glad to offer him.

Gritting her teeth, she shoved the thought down, sharpening her anger and embarrassment until it was a blade she could use to cut him down the next time she saw him. He’d made her a promise to be here when she returned, and he’d broken that promise. It was not a slight her pride could allow, and Nesta, obedient servant that she was, promised herself she would not betray her hubris by admitting how disappointed she was. Letting out a tight huff, it was only when she turned to go that she heard the tell-tale boom of Illyrian wings.

“Nesta.” She turned to see him looking wide-eyed and devastated, dressed only in a mussed white shirt and trousers. He didn’t even have boots on his feet. “What are you doing here?”

The question ran her through, puncturing her low belly and spilling shame down her front in a humiliating display she was sure he could see.

“You told me to—“ she began, teeth gritted, but then he took a step within scenting range and she broke off, throat unbearably tight.

He smelled of wine, and sweat, and—

She tensed. He also smelled of desire, both his and someone else’s. Her nostrils flared at the sweet, floral scent of another female, and she felt a thousand cracks spidering through the four glass chambers hanging in her chest, threatening to send them all plummeting down.

He read her expression and paled, taking another cautionary step forward.

“Please, it’s not what you think,“ he begged, eyes awash with pain.

She didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so undone, and Nesta’s back ached from the effort of keeping her shoulders from rolling forward into her collapsing chest.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” she snarled, closing the distance between them and shoving his shoulder—hard. “I could smell you for ten feet away!”

“ _Nesta—_ “

She shook her head, eyes burning with the effort of keeping them dry. Fifty years they’d danced around each other, and the minute he gotten what he’d clearly always wanted from her, he’d gone and shoved his prick in someone else. It felt like a validation of everything she’d always feared about herself: she might have been hot enough to fuck, but she was still too cold to ever be loved.

“I can’t believe I waited for you,” she admitted quietly, choking on the weakness frothing in her throat, her mouth.

She was so stupid, so pathetic, so worthless—

“I’m glad you did!” he said, reaching for her hand. “Please, I can explain.”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” she warned, backing up.

“Please,” he repeated, lips trembling slightly. “You have to believe me: I don’t know how this happened, and it doesn’t change what I feel for you. I don’t know why I—“

She felt the rage overrunning reason, its venom the only anecdote to the pain. She wanted to wound him, humiliate him, cut him to pieces until he felt as small and pathetic as she did in that moment.

“I do,” she interrupted, retreating another half step. “Because you’re still the same ugly, grubby bastard you’ve always been, the kind only barely clever enough not to shit where you sleep. Or,” she gave an indelicate sniff, a well-timed gesture of derision that masked the sob trying to claw its way up her throat. “Perhaps not.”

“I know you’re angry, but  _please_ , just let me—“

“I’m not angry,” she said, gorging herself on the pain in his eyes, the rising humiliation. It was a transference she knew wouldn’t last, but in the moment it felt good to see him laid so low. “I’m overcome with relief. The truth is that I only went to your bed on Starfall because I was drunk, and thinking about you touching me still makes my skin crawl.”

She saw the insult meet its target, anger and hurt coagulating at the point of impact.

“You don’t mean that.”

His voice had gone flat, and some part of her warned that she was on dangerous ground. He was not a creature to take this sort of insult lying down. Unfortunately for him, neither was she, and she simply forced a barbarous laugh instead, one that had his wings flaring slightly.

“Of course I do. Did you really think someone like me could ever truly want someone like  _you_? You are vile, and pathetic, and the truth is that you make me sick.”

This had his shoulders falling, clenched fists falling open at his side. She felt the rage ebbing and the devastation sweeping in at seeing how deep she’d cut him, and some weak part of her thought to take it back. Instead, she turned on her heel, preparing to stalk off. It was late, but there was at least one ale hall she knew would still be open.

“Please don’t go,” he croaked quietly. “At least let me see you home.”

She bared her teeth at him, pulling the death she’d stolen from Hybern into her hands. She was unraveling fast now, and she would be  _damned_ —after what he’d done—if she gave him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

“Follow me,” she snarled. “And I will destroy you.”

He studied the oily darkness swirling in her palms before glancing up to meet her gaze, and she could see silver shining in them.

“I am sorry, Nesta. Truly.”

“Damn your sorry,” she rasped, voice less harsh than she’d hoped. “And damn the cauldron for shackling me to a worthless piece of filth like you.”

It was the first time either of them had acknowledged it outright, and despite everything, she regretted it the moment she had. Regretted all of it, in fact. She had a talent for cruelty, she always had, but it was not one that she relished. Still, pride refused to let her take it back, and feeling tears stinging her eyes, she turned on her heel and stalked off.

##  **Next Time on _Like a Lonely House_ …**

_Azriel pressed a kiss to Elain’s brow before slipping into trousers and out onto the sprawling balcony, where Cassian was already pacing like a caged beast. Pulling the double doors softly shut behind him, Azriel turned and crossed his arms._

_“I don’t think I need to tell you,” he said in quiet greeting. “That it’s too early for a social call, and my pregnant and easily-irritated wife is still sleeping in the next room. So hear me with affection, brother, when I tell you to say whatever it is that’s brought you here and go.”_

_Cassian’s expression was somewhat manic, and Azriel felt a twinge of unease . It was a look he hadn’t seen in Cassian’s eyes in almost half a century._

_“I—“ Cassian choked, gaze growing fearful as the door creaked open and Elain slipped through, eyes still bleary as she rubbed them._

_“Az, what’s—"_

_Cassian seemed to grow even more fretful at her presence, and Elain broke off, giving a soft frown of confusion._

_“Cassian,” she said, coming to Azriel’s side and resting her head on his chest with a small yawn. “It’s early; what are you doing here?“_


	2. Part II

## Previously on Like a Lonely House…

_Nesta tensed. He also smelled of desire, both his and someone else’s. Her nostrils flared at the sweet, floral scent of another female, and she felt a thousand cracks spidering through the four glass chambers hanging in her chest, threatening to send them all plummeting down._

_He read her expression and paled, taking another cautionary step forward._

_“Please, it’s not what you think,“ he begged, eyes awash with pain._

_She didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so undone, and Nesta’s back ached from the effort of keeping her shoulders from rolling forward into her collapsing chest._

_“Do you think I’m stupid?” she snarled, closing the distance between them and shoving his shoulder—hard. “I could smell you for ten feet away!”_

_“Nesta—“_

_She shook her head, eyes burning with the effort of keeping them dry. Fifty years they’d danced around each other, and the minute he gotten what he’d clearly always wanted from her, he’d gone and shoved his prick in someone else. It felt like a validation of everything she’d always feared about herself: she might have been hot enough to fuck, but she was still too cold to ever be loved._

_“I can’t believe I waited for you,” she admitted quietly_

##  **Part II**

Azriel lay beside Elain in bed, drawing soothing circles on her bare skin as she wrestled into a light, fitful sleep. She would likely be upset if she knew her restlessness kept him up most nights, but he couldn’t help it. It was hard to see her in any measure of discomfort, even if the reason for it was a joy beyond measure. She turned from her side onto her back, and he felt an instinctual male satisfaction thrumming through his chest at seeing the way her flat belly was just beginning to swell.

Reverently, he bent to kiss the small protrusion just below her navel before running a palm over the spot in a way he knew soothed her. Indeed, she let out a soft exhale, the line that had creased her brows disappearing. Something tight in his chest eased at listening to her breathing even out, indicating she had finally fallen back to sleep.

He contemplated trying to do the same, but he knew instinctually that he wouldn’t be able to. Azriel wasn’t sure if it was a consequence of his shadowsinging or all the nights he’d spent shut up in his father’s house, dreading waking up to find his stepbrothers ready to dump piss on him or kick him in the stomach, but he’d always found sleep a rather elusive beast to tame.

It had gotten better since he’d begun courting Elain, her presence as much a balm in sleep as it was it him in the waking hours. Still, some nights he found he simply couldn’t settle down enough to rest, even with her naked and warm by his side.

Tonight was certainly one of those nights. A jagged unease was nagging at him, and though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something in his life had just fallen out of balance. It was perhaps the most difficult thing about his gift; the shadows were always quick to inform him of trouble, but often remained maddeningly vague on the details.

He’d tried to conceal the feeling from Elain earlier, but she must have seen the truth in his eyes as they’d gotten into bed, because she’d taken off her nightgown and crawled into his lap without a word, riding him until all he could think about was her. It had worked for a time, but when she’d fallen asleep, beautiful and sated, he sensed the feeling returning stronger than ever.

The problem was that the more he tried to dig into what it was, the more elusive it became. He knew it couldn’t be anything too severe or he’d barely be able to breathe, let alone sleep. Still, he could feel whatever it was trilling in his blood, enough that relaxation was impossible.

He considered getting up and doing work—he still had a backlog of reports from his Illyrian spies to get through—but glancing down at his wife, he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed.

In the moonlight pouring in from their balcony, she looked more seraph than fae, her honeyed hair wild from their romp earlier and her perfect breasts rising and falling in a graceful rhythm that he found almost hypnotic. He felt his elevated pulse slow as he watched her, and he thanked whatever god it was who’d seen fit to bless him with such a gift.

She shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her side and into his warmth. He ran a hand down her back in answer, and she gave a soft sound of contentment.

“Hold me,” she murmured, not opening her eyes.

Azriel sank down from where he’d been sitting up to do as she asked, and she sighed, reaching up to blindly stroke a ridge of muscle in his right wing. He felt a deep calm shudder through him at her caress, and he settled against her soft form, his troubles momentarily forgotten.

This, too, seemed a miracle to him. After so many years of abuse, Azriel had never been comfortable being touched or held, but falling in love with Elain had brought him a peace he hadn’t even realized was possible, and now he found himself craving her touch, and distressing whenever he was far away from her and could not have it.

“Te caкam,” he breathed in her ear, and she only shifted farther into him in reply, pulling his scarred hand down to rest on the rounded swell of her low belly.

Feeling it soothed Azriel’s restlessness, and he finally let himself relax into her and close his eyes.

He was nearly asleep when the tug the his chest began again, yanking him from the peace Elain had created and elevating his heart rate. Immediately, he felt the shadows gathering around him, frothing and writhing as they moved to speak in his ear.

_The General approaches on the swiftest wind he can make. He is agitated, and comes in search of your council. Be prepared._

Azriel waited for more, for some explanation of what exactly had Cassian so agitated, but the shadows had fallen utterly silent. Swearing to himself, Azriel untangled himself from Elain’s arms, waiting a moment to make sure he hadn’t woken her before slipping into trousers and onto the balcony, just as Cassian landed on the stone promenade, wings still flared.

Cassian immediately began pacing like a caged beast, and Azriel watched him for a moment before pulling the double doors behind him shut and crossing his arms.

“What are you doing here?”

Cassian didn’t stop pacing, wings flexing behind him in telltale Illyrian vexation.

“I don’t think I need to tell you that it’s too early for a social call,” Azriel continued. “Or that my pregnant and easily-irritated wife is still sleeping in the next room, so I hope you will understand me, brother, when I ask you to speak your piece and please be gone.”

“This isn’t a social call,” Cassian agreed, and Azriel could see a haunted wildness in Cassian’s features he hadn’t glimpsed on his friend’s face in nearly half a century.

When Cassian didn’t elaborate, Azriel sent out a tendril of power in an attempt to measure his distress, only to be rebuffed by some sort of shield Cassian seemed to be holding around himself.

 _Hiding something,_ the shadows hissed. _He’s hiding something._

“Cassian,” Azriel said, feeling his own disquiet mounting. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Cassian bit out, driving a hand into his unbound hair and tugging hard enough Azriel was mildly concerned he might tear it out.

“Yes.” Cassian paused again. “I don’t know. Az, you have to help me. I’ve made a horrible—“

“Az?”

They both turned as the doors of the balcony opened, and Cassian visibly stiffened as Elain admitted herself onto the balcony.

“Cassian,” she said, coming to Azriel’s side and resting her head on his chest with a stifled yawn. “It’s late; what are you doing here?”

“I—“ Cassian said, eyes darting down and away. “It doesn’t matter. I—I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll just—come back later.”

“Come back later?” Elain said, slipping from Azriel’s side to approach, a hand outstretched to brush Cassian’s arm. “But you just arriv—“

Cassian, in his distress, let the barrier he’d been holding around himself slip, and Elain broke off as the scent reached her the same moment it did Azriel. Before Azriel could stop her, Elain reached back and slapped Cassian across the face, hard enough that his neck snapped to the side.

“Elain!” Azriel said, feeling a searing stab of panic as he caught her around the waist, pulling her back.

Illyrians were trained from childhood to mete every blow they were dealt, and as unhinged as Cassian was, Azriel didn’t trust him around Elain, especially now that Azriel’s own paternal instincts had begun setting in. 

Elain, for her part, didn’t seem to notice or care about the tension bunching in Cassian’s every muscle, and she struggled against the arm Azriel had thrown around her middle.

“Don’t touch me!” she seethed, clawing from his grasp and whirling to give him a hard look.

Azriel was rocked back a step. She’d never looked at him the way she was now, and it ached in a place he’d only ever allowed Elain to see or touch. Cassian’s face tightened at seeing it, as if he understood what Elain’s response had cost Azriel.

Elain must have seen it too, because although her posture remained stiff, the coldness bled from her gaze, and after a moment, she turned it back on Cassian instead

“You  _letch_ ,” she hissed, pushing him this time. “How could you?”

Azriel tensed, ready to strike. Cassian would never hurt Elain, he promised himself, no matter what she did to him. Still, seeing them so close, Cassian towering over Elain and dwarfing her in his shadow, had Azriel’s own Illyrian instincts roaring at him to defend his female, and when Cassian let out a low warning snarl, Azriel was instantly between them, baring his own teeth. For a second, the wildness in Cassian raged, and Azriel felt his wings flaring in challenge.

“Back off, Cass,” he warned, and he watched his friend deflate, the sharp steel Cassian’s battle wrath dulling to unalloyed pain.

“Ellie,” he breathed penitently running his hands through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut. "I’m so sorry, I—“

Elain, for as small and meek as she usually was, seemed undaunted by the challenge she’d seen in Cassian’s eyes.

“Don’t call me that,” she said softly. “How dareyou call me that after what you’ve done to my sister? This is going to  _destroy_  her when she finds out.”

“I—“ Cassian choked, taking a step back and looking like a dog being beaten for stealing table scraps. “She already knows.”

Elain let out an low snarl of her own, and Cassian backed up further, as if he might throw himself off the balcony to relieve the guilt Azriel could see was crushing him.

“What do you mean, ‘she knows’?” Azriel said, desperate to defuse Elain’s ire and get to the bottom of whatever this was. It was possible there was still a logical explanation for all of this, though judging by the look on Cassian’s face, it didn’t seem likely.

“I—“ Cassian began, tone pleading as he tugged at his hair again. “I woke up in the Corona district with—“ he broke off, giving a pained snarl. “I swear, I have no idea how I got there, but when I got home, Nesta was on my front step waiting for me.”

“And where is she now?” Azriel asked, body coiled tight to spring. He wasn’t sure what Cassian might do if Elain struck him again, and he wasn’t sure he could trust Elain not to rip out his throat if Cassian chose not to defend himself. Pregnancy had ignited a rather fierce protective instinct in her, and her temper, while still generally mild, had developed considerable teeth and claws when provoked.

Cassian shook his head in response to Azriel’s question, and Azriel felt something in his chest clench. In the nearly six hundred years he’d known Cassian, Azriel could count the number of times he’d seen him cry on a single hand. Still, right now he looked as if he might do just that. All the fierceness he’d arrived with had bled out, and his face was bloodless and strained.

“Gone,” Cassian croaked.

“And you just let her go?” Elain said. “You  _bastard._ “

Cassian grit his teeth and flinched, as if she’d hit him again.

“After—“ Cassian tried before breaking off. “She took off, and I tried to follow her, but she winnowed before I could get to her. I’ve been searching for her for the last two hours, but I can’t find her anywhere.”

“So what?” Elain demanded, her voice softened to a deadly pitch. “You just gave up and decided to come here and let my husband lick your wounds for you?”

Cassian cringed back at the rebuke, even as his wings flared with the enduring chant in his blood not to let the insult go unanswered. Azriel wasn’t stupid; he knew what Cassian and Nesta were to each other, and he’d seen in Rhys how feral the instinct to protect that connection could get. Still, Cassian fought the urge, shaking his head.

“I came here to ask for his help, to find her.” His eyes flicked to Azriel. "I thought your shadows might have told you where she is.“

They hadn’t, but before Azriel could heighten Cassian’s growing mania by telling him so, Elain interrupted.

“It doesn’t matter; I know where she’s gone,” she said, turning her back on Cassian in dismissal. “I’m going after her.”

"Let me come with you,” Azriel and Cassian chorused in unison before trading a look. Azriel could feel Cassian vibrating with tension, every male instinct straining in him to get back to Nesta, to his—

“You’ll the last person she’ll want to see,” Elain spat at Cassian, with enough venom that Azriel was glad she’d retreated out of Cassian’s striking range. “And she’ll never agree to come home if you’re with me” she told Azriel. "I have to do this alone.”

“At least take Feyre with you, then, ” Azriel said, forcing down a stab of panic at the idea of a pregnant Elain wandering the streets alone at this hour. “Please.”

“No, I have to go alone,” Elain repeated. “And you must let me, Azriel.”

Azriel permitted himself another glance at Cassian, who looked equal parts stricken at what he’d wrought between them and desperate to argue he accompany her himself.

“Elain,” he said finally. “Please, tell her that I—“

Elain turned, and Azriel’s throat ached at seeing the tears that were now  tangled in her lashes, shining like lipid stones in the early dawn light.

“I will not insult her with your weak excuses,” she croaked, wiping her damp cheeks. “And see that you are not here when I return; I cannot bear to look at you.”

Azriel reached for her hand as she headed back to their bedroom, but she seemed determined to evade him, and after a moment he let it drop uselessly to his side as she disappeared through the balcony doors, slamming them behind her.

Azriel turned back to Cassian, trying to keep his chilling anger in check. Now that Elain was gone, Cassian had begun to pace again, wings flexing and rustling. At feeling Azriel’s gaze, Cassian turned to give him a hard, if latently sympathetic, look.

“I’m sorry, Az. I didn’t mean to bring trouble to your door.”

Azriel clenched and unclenched his left fist, trying to forget how Elain had shrank away from him not once, but twice. And now she was going into the city alone after an upset Nesta…

“What the hell happened?” he grit out, warring with himself over whether he ought to damn the consequences and follow Elain anyway. Or perhaps he could send one of the wraiths…

“I don’t know,” Cassian admitted, tugging at his hair. “I was drunk.”

“You were drunk?” Azriel repeated, teeth clenched. “That’s really all you can think to say?”

Cassian’s shoulders folded back, pushing his chest out in a way that Azriel knew usually meant violence. After what had happened with Elain, Azriel wasn’t above the idea of a fistfight. For a moment, Cassian looked ready to give it to him before he sighed and turned away.

“I hate myself enough already,” he snarled quietly over his shoulder, not turning to face his friend. “I don’t need it from you, too.”

Azriel considered his next words with care, knowing the damage that could be wrought from kicking a male when he was down.

Finally, he opted for bare truth.

“She’s your—“

Cassian still didn’t turn, but he was gripping the stone railing of the balcony so hard Azriel thought it might crack.

“Yes.”

“And does she—“

“Yes, she knows,” Cassian finished. “It snapped into place the morning after Starfall. I didn’t want to say anything then, but I was planning on discussing it with her when she got back.”

“You have to realize that can never be now,” Azriel said, knowing he was being cruel but not knowing quite how to stop himself. He could still feel Elain as she ripped out of his touch, as if it disgusted her. However, the tortured sound Cassian gave at the statement had him regretting it.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

There was a pleading in Cassian’s tone Azriel wasn’t sure he’d ever heard, and it thawed the coldest parts of his anger. Cassian was still his brother, and he was probably right: no one could hate him more than he hated himself for this. No one but perhaps Nesta Archeron.

“You know her better than I do,” Azriel said, warring his way to some version of the truth that wasn’t quite as sharp.

Cassian let out a snarl, punching a flowerpot that swayed near his head. It shattered with tremendous violence, dirt and wisteria vines spilling onto the marble ground like blood and entrails.

Azriel made to censure him for it, knowing that Elain would be upset to know one of her carefully-tended pots had been destroyed, but Cassian had fallen into a crouch, face buried in his hands, and seeing him, Azriel felt the last of his anger melting away. He didn’t press, though, knowing Cassian would speak when he was ready.

“I don’t understand how I could have done this to her,” Cassian said. “I don’t—I haven’t even looked at another female in years.”

Azriel crossed his arms, brushing at a shadow that hovered near his ear, silent save for a soft, unintelligible murmur that was setting his teeth on edge.

“Who was this female? Did you know her?”

Cassian shook his head, wings going loose and drooping on the marble like spilled ink.

“I’ve never seen her before. But I—“ He broke off, shaking his head again. “Nesta will never forgive me for this. I’m going to lose her.”

“I’m sorry, brother,” Azriel said in a soft voice. “Truly.”

Cassian shook his head a third time before uncoiling to his feet, wings going taut in preparation for flight.

“I have to go,” he croaked, tugging at his hair again. “I—I need to be alone. Please, let me know when Elain finds her. I have to know she’s alright.”

Azriel nodded his agreement.

“Where will you go?”

Cassian loosed a heavy breath.

“I don’t know. I just need to get away from this place for an hour or two. I can’t bear to be in the city right now.”

“Can I trust you to be alone?”

A quiet question, and one they’d traded many times over the centuries.

When Cassian didn’t reply, Azriel added softly, “If you hurt yourself, it will only cause her more pain.”

Cassian bit his lip as he looked down to the spilled dirt and flowers strewn across the promenade, his face pained as if he were seeing his every mistake in the mess.

“I think at this point she would be happy to be rid of me.”

A dull throb of panic thrummed through Azriel as the shadows rose to uselessly voice what Cassian was implying.

“Don’t make me send Morrigan to follow you,” he said, though it was not what he meant.  _Don’t you dare leave us._  That was what he didn’t need to say. Cassian knew his brothers loved him; the look he flashed Azriel as he prepared to take off told him so.

“Please, don’t tell Mor yet, or Rhys,” Cassian said. "I can’t handle either of them being smug right now.”

Again, Azriel nodded, and Cassian turned, shooting back into the sky with a dark boom.

* * *

Elain didn’t have to question where Nesta was; she knew her sister like she knew her own mind, and when Nesta wanted to be alone, she always went to the same places, a different one for each of her different reasons for needing solitude.

When she was annoyed, Nesta went to the lower level of the library, where no one but her ever dared go. When she was melancholy, she went to their father’s grave, talking to him until her voice grew hoarse and her pain ebbed. When she wanted to see Cassian, she braved the ten thousand steps up to the House of Wind, and when she wanted to avoid him, she went to Amren’s, where she knew he wouldn’t dare try to disturb her. And when Nesta was feeling self-destructive, she always went to the same seedy pub, which seemed to be filled with people no matter the time of day or night.

Elain had never told anyone about the place—not even Feyre—because when Nesta went there, it meant she was at her very lowest, and as much as Elain knew Feyre and Nesta loved each other, the combination of Nesta’s pain and Feyre’s desperation to ease it had always been a toxic combination.

She didn’t bother to dress fully, not wanting to be in the house with Cassian or away from Nesta a moment longer than she needed to. She simply stuffed her feet into soft slippers and put a cloak over her nightgown before winnowing as close to the pub as she could. She was still learning the finer points of such travel, and she didn’t want to end up in the Sidra if she misjudged the distance.

She arrived two blocks over from the tavern, whose reedy music she could hear echoing down the narrow alley. She made her way there quickly, pulling up her hood to obscure her face as she slipped into the rowdy hall, which was—as she’d anticipated—still teeming with unsavory sorts of all varieties.

She slipped in between drunken females and males trading lewd jokes to the bar, pushing her hood back only far enough that the lesser fae behind it could see her face.

“Where is she?” she said in greeting, and he gave her an appraising look, his brows two dark quill marks scrawled across his green skin as he frowned.

“I was wondering when you’d be here,” he mused. “You’re just in time, I think.”

In time for what, she didn’t want to know.

“Where is she?” Elain repeated, wondering if she ought to have let Azriel come along after all, or if she should have brought Amren with her. It was too late for any of that now, though. She just needed to get to Nesta, to speak to her, before Nesta did something she’d regret.

“There’s a game in the back,” the bartender told her, wiping the worn oak of the counter with a filthy rag.

Elain didn’t bother with thanking the male, knowing he had no use for her niceities, but she did place two coins on the bar, an offering he did seem to find acceptable.

“Best hurry, girl; last I saw her, she wasn’t alone.”

Elain ignored the jab, shoving through the crowd with less finesse now as she made her way past the dingy latrines to a room marked “Private”. Not bothering to knock, she threw it open to see a gaggle of young High Fae males gathered around a table, drinking and playing cards. There, perched on the lap of a blonde youth who was sitting farthest from the door, was Nesta, so drunk she could barely keep her head up.

Elain pushed her hood back, willing her hands not to tremble at seeing her sister so undone. Her bodice had been loosened, and Elain could practically see down it, which meant the male certainly could. Elain only hoped that Nesta had done it, and not one of her new companions.

“Come to join us, lovely?” the youth holding Nesta said in a mild voice, smiling as Nesta’s dropped her head back to whisper in his ear, eyes still closed.

He was, Elain noted at once, the palest shade of Cassian Nesta could have possibly found. He was thin as a whip with eyes the color of pale water, and he had the smugness of inborn wealth Cassian had never worn.

“Let go of her and leave us,” Elain said, before uselessly adding, “Please.”

“What’s your hurry,  _geneth_?” another male asked, eying her with appreciation. “We’re in the middle of a game.”

“And I think she’s very happy where she is,” the first added, kissing Nesta’s temple as she settled her cheek on his shoulder. He gave her waist a squeeze for emphasis, and Elain felt sick.

“She’s nearly drunken herself into a stupor. I’m taking her home with me.”

At hearing Elain’s voice, Nesta stirred, head weaving like a serpent’s as she struggled to scowl at Elain. Even this deep in her cups, Nesta had a gaze that could cut glass, though Elain could see the pain—deep and dark—eddying there as well.

“Go away, El—Elain,” she slurred, and the youths laughed.

“The lady has spoken!” the first said delightedly. “But you’re more than welcome to join us, if you’d like. Cynco, fetch this bewitching female a ch—“

When she drew the hunting knife from her belt, they all fell silent, the two closest to her staggering out of their chairs to get some distance from it. It was a blade of exquisite craftsmanship, and one without equal, save for it’s twin, Truth-Teller. Light-Bringer, Azriel had named it when he’d given it to her upon their engagement. It was crafted from stitches of diamond and Adriatan pearl, and like Truth-Teller, it needed no introduction.

“I’m sorry!” the youth holding Nesta choked, immediately coaxing her to her feet before holding his hands up as if to prove his noble intentions. He must not have recognized her before. “Please, don’t tell your husband.”

The other youths were all glancing around nervously, as if the dreaded Illyrian might appear from the nearest shadow.

“My husband is not the one you should be worrying about,” Elain said, pushing past two of the youths to Nesta’s side as she swayed. Elain looped an arm around Nesta’s slim waist as she gave them each a cold glare.

The blonde youth went bone white, eyes flicking over her shoulder.

“Is The General—“

“I meant me,” she snarled quietly, easing Nesta into a chair and touching her cheek. “Now get out.”

The male nearly vaulted over the table in his haste to leave, his companions following suit. Elain grabbed the last by his shirt as he hastened to follow his friends.

“Fetch us some water.”

His head bobbed like a toy monkey’s, and were the situation not so desperate, Elain might have laughed. Instead she gave him her best stare to hasten his exit. When he was gone, Elain turned back to Nesta, willing herself not to cry as she touched her sister’s flushed cheek.

“Oh Nesta,” she murmured, brushing some hair from her sister’s face. “What have you done to yourself?”

Nesta only slapped Elain’s hand away in response.

“Leave me  _alone_ ,” she demanded. “I’m fi—“ she paused, and Elain could tell she was fighting not to be sick. “Fine,” Nesta finally finished. “Just go back to your sullen husband and leave me be.”

“Nesta—“

“I said go, Elain!” Nesta snarled, pitching up from the table with such violence that she immediately swayed into the wall, bracing herself against it.

“Just let me help you,” Elain pleaded.

“I don’t want your bleeding help!” Nesta roared, words tumbling into one another like sailors on a storm-tossed deck. “Just leave me alo—“

Without warning, Nesta doubled over and vomited all down the front of her gown, still swaying on her feet for a moment before sliding into the puddle of sick splattered on the floor and tucking her knees to her chest.

“Oh Nesta,” Elain repeated, falling down next to her elder sister, usually so composed, and wiping at her mouth. “Let’s go home and get you cleaned up.”

Nesta pushed her hand away again, her face still limning violence.  

“Leave me alone,” she said pulling her legs close to herself, as if guarding from an attack.

“Please, I just want to get you—“

“I don’t want to go to your horrid house, Elain. I don’t want anything, I just want to b-be alone.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Elain said, hoping her voice sounded firm. It would only make things worse if she began crying now.

Still, seeing Nesta laid so low was tugging at wounds she’d thought had finally healed, threatening to tear out the stitches and set them to bleeding anew.

“At least talk to me,” Elain urged. “I’m your sister, Nes; your burdens are mine to share.”

Nesta looked down at her sullied boots, brows tightly synched.

“I hate this city,” she said finally, words slurring again. “I hate the fae, I hate my life, and I hate—“

Nesta broke off before glancing down at herself, stinking and soiled, and letting out a choked sound Elain almost didn’t recognize coming from her sister’s mouth. It wasn’t until she saw the silver lining Nesta’s eyes that she even fully realized what it was; Nesta was crying.

“I’m such a fool,” Nesta whispered, voice venomous even through all the wine. Others had always been quick to point out how cruel Nesta could be, but Elain wasn’t sure anyone but her realized the person Nesta had always been cruelest to was herself. “Such a stupid, miserable fool for every trusting him. I hate him.“

Elain bit her lip, forcing herself not to cry as well. “He is the foolish one, for having someone like you and throwing it away for nothing. And I don’t blame you for hating him.”

“I do hate him,” Nesta repeated blearily. “But no more than I hate myself. I feel so stupid, so worthless—“

She buried her head between her knees and let out a screamed sob. It was a wild sound, a keen of agony and rage, and it had Elain’s own animal instinct flaring, roaring at her to punish this male who had so abused her sister. Nesta might have seemed cold and unfeeling to others, but Elain knew the truth: deep down, she had a heart that was big and tender, and when it was wounded, it bled with a ferocity vicious enough to destroy her. It was why Nesta had honed herself into such a harsh weapon; to defend the tenderness that lay beneath all the steel.

“You’re not worthless,” Elain assured Nesta as she pushed her forehead to Nesta’s. “You are everything to those who love you.”

“But not to him,” Nesta croaked, almost to herself. “He made me think that he did, but he’s a liar.” She sniffled before sobbing again, tears spilling down her cheek. “What did I do? Why doesn’t he lov—”

Nesta broke off and yet another sob, and Elain found herself struggling for words. She’d never seen Nesta like this, even after the war. It struck a cord of fear so deep in Elain’s gut she was nauseous.

“Because he’s a bleeding fool,” she said, using the corner of her cloak to wipe the sick from Nesta’s mouth. “But tonight is not the time to think on it. Come, let’s get you home.”

Nesta seemed to gain some lucidity at this.

“No!” she said, voice petulant as a child’s. “I don’t want to be near your wretched husband. I hate him; I hate all of them.”

“Even me?” Elain said gently, brushing Nesta’s hair back and wiping at her tears. Even stinking drunk with vomit on her neck and chest, Nesta was beautiful. That Cassian couldn’t see that—hadn’t respected it—set Elain’s blood boiling again.

“No,” Nesta admitted. “Not you. Never you.”

“Then let me get you home, please. We don’t have to go to my house, if you don’t want. I can take you to the villa, or—“

Nesta bubbled her lips in hateful contempt.

“Not the villa,” she said. “I can’t bare that pitying look Feyre always gives me. It makes me sick.”

“She cares for you,” Elain said. “Can’t you just let her?”

Nesta’s head lulled in a a gesture Elain realized was meant to convey dismissal.

“No,” she bit out, voice bubbling out the word.

“Why?” Elain breathed, vowing to never tell Feyre of this. It would break her heart.

“Because I’m trash,” Nesta said, voice gone too quiet again. “Not even fit for an Illyrian bastard to fuck.”

“That’s not true,” Elain bit out. “And for what it’s worth, Cassian looked ready to pitch himself off the balcony for what he did to you. I know that doesn’t change anything, but please, do not make the mistake of believing you aren’t worth loving or fighting for. You are.”

“You have to say that,” Nesta mumbled. “You’re my sister.”

“I say it because it’s true,” she told Nesta. “And if Cassian is too blind to see it, some other male will.”

Nesta’s lip began to tremble again, but Elain watch her master the feeling with effort, frowning down at herself again in disgust.

“I’m vile,” she whispered to herself, a single, rebellious tear streaking down her cheek.

“No,” Elain said firmly, taking Nesta’s chin. “You’re Nesta Archeron, and you are without equal. You just need a bath and some rest, is all. Tell me, where can I take you? Do you want to go back to your own—“

“No,” Nesta said. “I don’t—take me somewhere  _he_  would never go. I don’t want to have to think about him.”

Elain considered before hauling Nesta to her feet and pulling the cloak from her own shoulders and to it around Nesta instead. When she was outside, she shivered at the dampness in the air, the last remnant’s of the evenings chill clinging to life as dawn’s warm sent them away.

"I need you,” Elain whispered into the darkness. “Come find me.”

She didn’t think she could winnow with Nesta in her arms, half unconscious, and she wasn’t sure Nesta’s stomach could handle the journey besides. She glanced around again, starting to fret at being alone with a prone Nesta and no cloak to cover her near-nakedness. Crime in Velaris was admittedly low, but that didn’t mean there weren’t still males who sought to take liberties were they saw them.

However, a second later Elain heard the rustle of wings, and she watched Azriel descending to the ground behind her, brows synched.

“Cauldron,” he hissed, rushing to Elain’s side to take the now-sleeping Nesta off her hands. “What happened?”

Elain clenched her jaw, touching Nesta’s pale cheek as Azriel hauled her easily into his arms.

“Cassian happened,” she said in a cold voice, ignoring the hurt in his eyes.

She knew this wasn’t his fault and that it was unfair to punish him for Cassian’s folly, but she couldn’t help it.

“Elain, I’m sorry. I know you—“

She let out a breath, feeling guilty for so mistreating the male she loved.

“Please, Az, I can’t talk about this right now,” she said. “Just help me get her to Amren’s. I need her to be somewhere Cassian won’t try and seek her out. She’s been through enough.”

Azriel gave a soft frown.

“I know you’re angry with him,  _сакана,_ but I don’t think he did this to hurt her. He would never do that.”

Elain felt a stab of anger, cold and unfamiliar, at hearing Azriel defend Cassian even after seeing what his carelessness had done to Nesta. No one, not even Az, seemed to see her for the deep and thoughtful person she was beneath all her armor, and it hurt in a way Elain had no words for.

“He already has,” she snapped, torn between beating Az’s chest and crying in his arms. She bit her lip instead, willing herself to do neither. “And I can’t bear to talk about it any longer. Please, just go. I will meet you there in a moment.”

Azriel looked prepared to argue, but Elain turned, not wanting him to see her cry. She could feel him at her back, straining to mend the hurt between them, but in the end he remained silent, and she didn’t wait for him to take flight before winnowing out of sight.

##  **Next Time on Like a Lonely House...Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged!**

_Nesta’s back ached with the effort of keeping her shoulders pinned back, but she reveled in the twinge, letting the discomfort anchor her as she forced herself to meet Cassian’s gaze._

_Why? she silently begged. Why did he have to be so handsome, and why did he insist on wearing the expression, as if he’d tear his heart from his chest if she asked it of him?_

_For so many years, she’d been able to keep both those facts in check, compartmentalized in a place so deep that most days, she could avoid the entirely. Now when she looked at him, all she could think about was the Ilyrian endearments he’d breathed in her ear while he’d been inside her, and the way, even without knowing what they’d meant, each one had been a gift._

_**No** , her pride chastised. She would not think like that. She wouldn’t give Cassian the satisfaction of knowing that he’d gotten so thoroughly under her skin. She couldn’t take back the fact she’d fucked him, but she didn’t have to betray herself by even admitting what being in his arms had meant to her. **Good girl** , her pride crowed. Make him suffer. Show him how little he’s worth. It is the only way._

_Make him suffer._

_It became her mantra, her rallying cry, as she watched him approach. She would give no quarter, cede no ground. He may have won the battle, but she would win the war._

_“Nesta,” he breathed when he was close enough. She could tell in the clench of his fist that he was fighting to urge to touch her._

_So arrogant, these fae males. She could tell that some primal male part of him was straining for her, because she could feel the same thing beating in her own blood. Take. Claim. Keep._

_She would do no such thing._

_She turned, giving him a look imbued with every own of piteous distrain she could muster._

_“What do_ **_you_ ** _want?”_

_It was an effort to turn away from him, but she forced herself to do it, unwilling to let him see how much she wanted to lean in, even after everything he’d done._

_“Drop dead,” she snarled quietly instead. “I mean it.”_


	3. Part III

Cassian woke three days later at a dreary Illyrian outpost at the base of Şeytanin Pass, feeling no better than he had when he’d first left Velaris. He still had a pounding headache and stiff limbs, as if the drinking sickness was still fresh. However, the physical discomfort paled in comparison to the dread knot that formed in his stomach every time he thought about Nesta.

Cassian had flown straight to the camp after Azriel had informed him that Elain had indeed found Nesta and brought her somewhere safe. He’d been tempted at the time to demand to know where, evening knowing Az would never tell him.

Even after nearly a quarter of a century of acclimating to Azriel and Elain’s courtship and eight months after they’d been wed, Cassian still found himself adjusting to the sensation of sharing Azriel’s undying loyalty with someone else. It admittedly chafed at times—never more so than now—but he knew not to push. Elain and Azriel might not have been mates, but they shared a bond that was equally as strong, and Cassian would never be so selfish as to put strain on that union knowing what it meant to his brother after so many centuries of self-isolation.

Besides, he hardly thought it mattered; Nesta had made it clear enough that night she had no desire to see him, and if he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t say he blamed her. Whatever walls he’d coaxed her to take down since the war had already been rebuilt, and he could foresee no avenue through which he could breach them a second time.

The thought pained Cassian, his heart seeming to wither like a necrotic limb after a snakebite. He could still hear Nesta’s barbarous taunts in his head, as if they were a siren song he couldn’t seem to stop following, even knowing they were only drawing him closer to a horrible fate.

_Did you really think someone like me could ever truly want someone like you?_

Nesta’s talent for cruelty had always lain in her ability to ferret out the thing a person feared most about themselves and drag it under the harsh light of acknowledgment. He shouldn’t have been surprised that she could see how afraid he’d always been that he was not worthy of her, but he supposed he’d come to trust she’d never use it as a weapon against him.

The problem was that even knowing why she’d said it, he didn’t know if she’d actually meant it. Over the last several days, that fear of inadequacy had contorted into a much greater terror: what if she never gave him the chance to find out? As the days passed and he had no word from Velaris, he felt the hope for reconciliation ebbing away, worn down by the tide of sorrow and regret.

The thought made him ill—physically ill—and he reached for the bucket he’d had to keep by his bed before retching the same vile, rose-tinted liquid he’d been throwing up for three days. He hadn’t thought there was wine strong enough to produce this sort of reaction so long after consumption, though he supposed he was not nearly so young as he’d once been. Perhaps his days of drinking to excess had simply eclipsed.

He groaned and sat up from the uncomfortable mattress he’d been lying on, stretching his wings as best he could in the cramped room. He was due back in Velaris by mid-morning for a meeting with Rhys and the others, and the thought sent a pang of restless energy to his gut. He doubted she’d be there—Nesta despised politics, despite her innate gift for strategy and negotiation—but he doubted he could avoid her at Mor’s homecoming party that evening, if Nesta deigned to join.

He couldn’t decide if he was desperate to see her or if he was dreading it. Both, he supposed. He didn’t relish the verbal beating she’d dole out given the opportunity, but he also had to see her, if only to know she was alright.

Rising, he quickly washed with the tepid water left in the basin from the previous evening before donning his leathers and taking back to the skies. He allowed the morning’s chill to sooth his swelling agitation, which grew with every mile he traveled. The instinct that his night of passion with Nesta had ignited began to beat at him like an Illyrian drum, demanding he see her. He ignored the feeling as best he could, trying to remind himself there were more pressing matters than even he and Nesta to worry about at present.

Despite fifty years of peace, disquiet in Illyria continued to grow, and combined with the policy of Splendid Isolationism many of the Prythian Courts had adopted after all the blood spilled in Hybern, even allies like Kallias and Helion seemed reluctant to throw their support behind Rhys to deter strife. Cassian remained hopeful that civil war could still be avoided, but there could be no pretending it did not loom on the horizon, growing closer with every failed negotiation.

The idea had Cassian’s temperature rising again, and he fought to regain his composure. They still had allies on the continent who could be relied upon, and treatise talks with the Illyrian leaders still continued, even if they’d largely stalled over the last decade.

The largest threat seemed to be concentrated in Macar, one of the largest Illyrian provinces nestled in the craggy wilds of the far North. It was by far the most autonomous of the territories, ruled over by the same family for almost a thousand years. The current Macaran Prince was a youth named Adan, and though barely seventy-five and relatively new to his title, he was a prodigious warrior, and followers flocked to him like vultures to carrion.

He was, by all of the accounts Azriel had gathered, a magnanimous and progressive leader, but he still kept tight control over his borders, and Rhys had yet to deem his threat worthy of pushing the issue by forcibly opening them, even after two years of politely rebuffed invitations to come to the Hewn City and meet with Rhys and Feyre face-to-face.

The way Cassian saw it, as long as Adan refused to come to the table to discuss the issue formally, he remained a threat. It was a sentiment Azriel shared, and one they’d both voiced many times, even in the face of Rhys and Feyre’s insistence they not act until they’d exhausted all other options.

The waiting chafed at Cassian’s warrior instincts, but when he imagined what civil war could mean for those he loved, he found his rage at the boy’s impudence stymied. Cassian had a recurring nightmare of a rocky battlefield running red with blood, where he wandered through the corpses of his fallen friends until happening upon Nesta’s broken body and waking with a start, drenched in cold sweat. She may have hated him now, but she would always be his to protect. If that meant placating some up-jumped prick to avoid war, he’d gladly do it.

He landed on the balcony of Rhys’s study several hours later, listening to the overture of a crescendoing argument through the open doors as he shook the chill from his wings and folded them against his back.

“Even you can’t be that arrogant,” Lucien was saying as Cassian ducked his head and slipped through the open window. “After how you treated him? Be serious, Rhysand.”

Rhys—who was sitting across from where Lucien lounged on a velvet settee, twirling his wedding band around a finger—rolled his eyes.

“Ten years a prince and suddenly his majesty knows everything.”

“King Consort,” Lucien snapped back. “And don’t be a prick just because you don’t care for the die you’ve cast. Tamlin will never help you, especially against the Illyrians.” Lucien’s lip curled before he continued, “and if you can’t find it in yourself to at least be civil, neither will Vassa and I.“

Cassian glanced at Azriel, raising his eyebrows as if to ask, “how long has this been going on?”

Azriel shrugged, indicating they’d been going at it for some time. Normally Rhys and Lucien’s bickering would agitate him, but today Cassian was content enough not to have to speak.

That was, until Lucien cast him a look of thinly-veiled contempt and drawled, “where have you been? You look like death warmed over.”

“Illyria,” he said in a flat voice, ignoring Azriel’s scrutinizing look.

Even without seeing himself he could tell he was pale, and despite the chill outside, sweat dripped down his neck.

“How illustrative,” Lucien said, and Cassian felt a snarl building up he had to physically fight down. He wasn’t in the mood to be questioned, particularly by this arrogant welp.

“Any news?” Rhys asked.

Cassian shrugged.

“More of the same. There were rumors at the Devil’s Spine that the Macaran prince’s been awarded another syphon, but I don’t know if its true or not.”

“It is,” Azriel offered, a shadow slithering up his neck like a coal black serpent. “One of my scouts confirmed it this morning.”

“When?” Cassian said, feeling his agitation rising again, and his dizziness along with it.

“While you were away.”

Rhys swore softly under his breath.

“How many does that make now?”

“Nine,” Azriel said, crossing his arms over his chest and making his own syphons gleam in the light. “But they are saying he could wear as many as twelve by his hundredth birthday.”

Rhys swore again, even as Lucien snorted.

“And you honestly thought the rest of Prythian would want to join in the fight against that sort of power?” He snorted again. “As always, you dream too big, Rhysand.”

“You don’t have to sound so gleeful about it,” Rhys snapped, rubbing his temples. “And there won’t be a fight. Adan’s finally extended an invitation to Macar for peace talks.”

“To who?” Cassian said, not bothering to hide his eagerness. “All of us?”

A trip that far North would be a welcome distraction from the tempest he knew was still brewing here in Velaris, likely raging and growing in power in Amren’s apartment as they spoke. He just needed to go somewhere—anywhere—to escape the growing urge to find Nesta and fall at her feet.

Rhys pursed his lips.

“To Az.”

Cassian cut his gaze to Azriel, whose own face remained impassive.

“Why only you?” Lucien asked.

Azriel’s expression didn’t shift, but Cassian watched an icy glimmer harden his friend’s gaze.

“My father was a Macaran lord,” Azriel said, voice flat. “And they are a people who prize blood above almost anything else.”

“You say that as if you aren’t one of them,” Lucien pointed out.

Azriel bent a look on him that was cold enough to burn.

“I’m not Macaran, nor will I ever be.”

“This is a good thing,” Rhys cut in. “It means we’re making progress.”

“Or it’s a trap,” Cassian pointed out. “I should go with him.”

“No,” Rhys said, tone brooking no argument. “The invitation was clear.”

“Elain won’t like it,” Cassian said, trying to appeal to Az now instead. He knew Azriel was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, but he couldn’t bear to be stuck here in Velaris while trouble brewed in the North.

Azriel leveled Cassian with a heavy stare.

“She has her own duties to attend to here. She understands I have mine as well.”

“Where is Elain?” Lucien asked, still twirling his wedding band around a finger. “I thought I would have seen her by now. To be honest, she’s the only real reason I made the journey.”

Cassian cut a glance to Azriel to gauge his reaction, but the latter didn’t betray much, beyond running a thumb over his own wedding band.

“She’s not your servant,” Azriel said coolly. “Here to answer to your every beck and call.”

Lucien raised his eyebrows.

“So touchy, Shadowsinger, even after all this time. There’s no need for barbarous words, it was only a question.”

Azriel wasn’t usually one to be insecure about Elain and Lucien’s closeness, and Cassian wondered if it was the looming responsibility of fatherhood that had coaxed such an ardent response.

An unexpected pang of jealousy hit him in the gut at the thought, strong enough to make his mouth water. He’d always hoped that someday it might be he and Nesta expecting a child, and the realization that that would likely never come to pass now was enough to make him want to break something.

Azriel only clenched his jaw in response to Lucien’s jab, clearly fighting the urge to squabble for Elain’s sake.

“She’s with her sister.”

Lucien raised his brows and pursed his lips, evidently needing no clarification on which sister.

“Not that I’m complaining, but I’ve yet to see Nesta, either.” At this his gaze wandered to Cassian, and Cassian fought not to tense. “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you two go for more than a few hours without tearing at each other’s throats. Has the spark finally gone out?”

Cassian didn’t bother to hold in the  soft snarl that thrummed in his chest. He couldn’t bear anyone prying into things with Nesta while they were still so raw, least of all Lucien.

“They’re preparing for Mor’s party, I’d guess,” Rhys said. “I’ve been too scared to press for details, but from what Feyre’s told me, it’s going to be one hell of a gathering.”

Cassian felt a hot, wet nausea pounding in his stomach, a revolting mix of expectancy and dread.

“Nesta will be there?”

Rhys frowned, and Cassian’s panic throbbed again at the scrutiny in his friend’s expression.

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

Cassian glanced at Azriel for support, who shrugged off Rhys’s question.

“You know Nesta; she comes and goes as she pleases.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes at Cassian, having failed to be put off by Azriel’s flippant response.

“I thought you two were past all that. In fact, you seemed rather…friendly on Starfa—“

“Stay out of my affairs,” he snapped, and Rhys outright frowned.

Cassian could still hear Nesta’s tearful voice the morning he’d found her waiting for him on his front steps, and he had the sudden urge to shatter something. The last thing he wanted to discuss was Starfall.

“What’s gotten into you?” Rhys demanded. “First you take off to the Şeytanin Pass without a word, and now you’re—“

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“It’s open,” Lucien called, and Cassian felt his heart drop into his twisting guts as Elain admitted herself.

She didn’t immediately notice Cassian, but her face lit up upon seeing Lucien, who rose from his perch to greet her.

“So the rumors are true!” she said with glee, throwing her arms around his neck. “Forgive me I didn’t come sooner, I was at Amren’s and only just received your note!”

“No apology necessary, of course,  _m’elanned_. I’m just happy to see you at last.”

“And you,” she said, touching his cheek with reverence. “How’s Vassa? And the baby?”

“Vassa’s well. She was ready to go dancing twenty minutes after it was over. And the baby is beautiful, like her mother and sisters.” He paused to laugh, russet eye sparkling with pride. “Though I admit three daughters is a great deal to manage. I would like a least one boy before it’s all over.”

“The way you two reproduce,” Rhys cut in dryly. “I don’t think it should be a problem.”

“Leave him alone,” Elain said, rubbing her own stomach and smiling softly.

She seemed in much better spirits than she had been the last time Cassian had seen her, and he permitted himself to hope that it meant Nesta had cooled down some as well. However, the notion was quickly dashed when Elain turned her gaze on him and frowned.

“What are you doing back here?” she demanded. “Az said you’d gone North.”

“I did,” he said. “But—“

“You should have stayed there,” she interrupted, her mouth a firm line.

“And miss Mor’s grand homecoming? She’d kill him,” Rhys said, his tone less playful than his words as he scrutinized the two of them. Finally he said, “What’s he done to upset you this time, lamb?”

Elain’s gaze cut to Rhys, then Azriel, with whom she shared a long look. Cassian she ignored completely, though he could still feel the keen displeasure rolling off her like waves of heat.

“Ask him yourself,” she finally told Rhys, voice stiff.

Rhys raised his eyebrows at her tone. “I’m asking you.”

After a beat of sullen silence from Elain, Cassian felt Rhys’s power stir, slithering through the room like a great serpent.

Everyone else must have felt it too, because Lucien uncoiled back to his feet at once, and Azriel’s siphon’s began to pulse dully as he took a step towards Elain. For her part, Elain seemed unmoved, her oft-concealed Archeron fire blazing in her eyes.

“That was not a request,” Rhys said, voice all the more deadly for its calm.

Elain only continued to glare, first at Cassian then at Rhys.

“I’m not one of your subjects, Rhysand. You do not give me orders.”

“Seeing as you live in my city and have married into my family, I would say you actually rather are,” Rhys countered, rising to his own feet now. “Tell me what’s going on,  _now_.”

“Back up, Rhysand, ” Azriel said in a cool voice, putting a hand to his friend’s chest to halt any further advance.

“To the Hells with both of you,” Elain said with lip curled, her eyes lingering on Rhys with disdain for a moment before flitting to Cassian and going impossibly colder, even as she turned to storm out.

It was a look so hateful and deserved Cassian felt it’s burn all the way down his throat. It was an unpleasant sensation, made even more so by the words he could no longer hold back clawing up the other way. He tried to choke them down, but finally he relented and spoke.

“Elain,” he began, and her back stiffened as she paused in her retreat. “Please, how is she?”

At this Azriel too went still, even as his palm remained on Rhys’s chest to keep him checked.

Elain turned with predatory intent, and despite her size, Cassian felt his Illyrian instincts urging him to prepare for a fight.

“Stay away from my sister,” she said in a deadly whisper. “Or I’ll remind you that same Archeron blood runs through my veins as well.“

With that she swept out of the room, Lucien raising his eyebrows at the Illyrians in contempt before following after her. Azriel watched him go after Elain with a clenched jaw before turning his attention back to Rhysand and shoving him with the hand already laid on his friend’s chest.

“You’re a cunt,” he snarled in a soft voice.

“That’s rich,” Rhys countered. “I’m not the one who—“

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Azriel warned, hands flexing as they gained better purchase in Rhys’s fine jacket. “And don’t you  _ever_  pull rank on her like that again.”

Cassian watched as both their wings flared. He itched to join the fight as well, if only to burn off the agitation that Elain’s threat had churned in his gut.

“That’s enough,” he said instead, knowing in-fighting wouldn’t do any good. “He didn’t mean it, Az.”

Azriel shoved Rhys hard in the chest again, but the fact that Rhys didn’t stop him seemed to signal he knew he’d been in the wrong. Cassian let out of a breath of relief, hoping to slip away and have a moment to himself to collect his thoughts. However, the sheer force of Rhys’s gaze as it fell on Cassian rooted him to the spot.  

“What the hells is going on?” he demanded. “Tell me, or I will have Morrigan drag it out of the both of you when she arrives.”

Even angry, Rhys would never threaten to break into their minds with his own power, even if Cassian knew he could probably do it.

“It’s none of your business,” Cassian said, folding his arms across his chest and fighting to keep his wings pinned.

Rhys’s midnight eyes flashed.

“Elain might not be under my jurisdiction, but you swore loyalty to me when you joined this court. Tell me what happened with Nesta.”

Cassian blew out a breath, driving his hands into his hair.

“What does it matter?”

“Nesta’s power is unrivaled and dangerous. If you’ve unhinged her somehow, I need to know so I can restrain it, or her, if necessary.”

Cassian snarled, the sound coming from deep in his chest as he bared teeth.

“She’s not an animal, Rhys! She’s…“

Cassian broke off, sighing. He couldn’t bear to say the word aloud.

“I knew it,” Rhys breathed, softening. “She’s your—“

“Yes,” Cassian interrupted, trying to ignore the instinct that urged him to gut Rhys for his derogatory tone.

"How long have you known?”

Cassian glanced at Azriel for support before sighing.

“Since Starfall.”

“Let me guess,” Rhys said. “She knows too, and now she threatens to rage and burn down the world rather than accept it. Is that what you two are fighting about?”

“Rhys,” Azriel said in warning, casting a wary eye to Cassian as his wings twitched behind him, straining to flex in an instinctual show of strength.

“Why do you always assume the worst of her?” Cassian demanded, hands balling into fists. "She’s done nothing wrong. This—this is my folly, my doing.”

“What is, exactly?“

Cassian bowed his head at the memory of the female’s foreign scent on his skin, her nail marks scored into his wings, and Nesta’s face—gods, her face—when she first saw him that night. The fragile hope he’d seen shining in her eyes had broken his heart, as surely as the revelation of what he’d done had broken hers.

“Four days ago I got drunk and I—I woke up in the Corona District in the bed of another female. Nesta has every right to be upset with me.”

Rhys considered, pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger before finally saying,“why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you do it?”

“I told you, I was drunk. I don’t even remember meeting the female.

It was just—“ Cassian blew out a breath, wishing he could invent a word grave enough to convey the depth of his regret. “A mistake.”

“Was it?” Rhys countered. "Or was it your subconscious trying to tell you something?”

Cassian didn’t pause to consider the consequences. The minute Rhys said it, he lunged, and only Azriel’s blindingly-fast reflexes kept Cassian from sending a fist driving up into the underside of Rhys’s jaw.

“Back off,” Azriel told Rhys, giving him another hearty shove. "You aren’t helping.”

Rhys threw up his hands in disgust.

“Tell me you don’t agree!”

“I don’t,” Azriel said sharply. “I admit Nesta is—complicated, but she’s still family, Rhysand. Respect that. And Vanserra is right; if you insist on being vitriolic, I don’t think you’ll like what it will end up costing you.”

“Now you’re threatening me, too?”

“I’m reminding you that Cassian is one of your oldest and most loyal friends,” Azriel countered, tone still edged. “And were your situations reversed, he would be sympathetic, not caustic.”

“I would never dishonor Feyre by bedding another woman,” Rhys said in a low voice.

Cassian snarled, wings flaring again. He wanted to bite back with something equally as cutting, but the reality was that Rhys was right; there was no amount of wine in the world that could coax him into betraying Feyre, or Azriel into betraying Elain. Cassian didn’t want to dig into whatever it was inside of him that was damaged enough to allow him betray to Nesta. The thought alone was nearly enough to make him vomit again.

Rhys must have read this thought in Cassian’s eyes, or perhaps in his wan complexion, because his shoulders softened, and he sighed.

"I’m sorry,” Rhys said. “Cass, I’m sorry. I was wrong to insinuate—and I know this must be painful for both of you. Have you spoken to her?”

“You heard Elain—she wants nothing to do with me.”

“You can’t know that until you talk to her,” Rhys said, but Cassian was already shaking his head, trying not to replay the image of Nesta’s face that night.

“You don’t understand. She was waiting for me, when I got back. She scented me. She won’t forgive me that betrayal, and I can’t blame her for it.”

“Maybe it seems that way now, but she’s still your—”

“Not everyone can be you and Feyre, Rhys!” Cassian said, his control unraveling. The idea of not being with Nesta—not having her, not loving her—was gnawing at him with teeth sharp enough that he feared he’d go mad from the pain. “Damn the Cauldron and its divine machinations! Not everyone ends up with the person they are meant to. If you don’t believe me, just ask Vanserra.”

At this, Azriel flinched, looking as if Cassian had struck him across the face. Cassian wasn’t sure he’d seen that aggrieved expression on his friend’s face since they day Cassian had met him, and instantly he felt sick with guilt.

“Az, I’m sorry,” he began. “I didn’t mean—“ he paused, sighing again before repeating, “I’m sorry.”

Azriel only inclined his head in acknowledgment, but Cassian knew—even without being able to read it on his friend’s impassive face—that the comment would torment Azriel for hours, especially considering Elain was spending the afternoon with Lucien.

Cassian hung his head. He hadn’t thought when he’d arrived that he could hate himself any more, but hurting Az the way he had just now, he found his spirits sinking to new depths. He needed to go. He needed to punch something, needed to sweat and bleed until he didn’t feel like such a disappointment to the people who loved him.

“I’m going to clear my head,” he said finally. "Are we done here?”

“No,” Rhys said, voice having gone flat even as power edged into it.

Cassian turned to find something unnamable glittering in his friend’s crushed violet eyes.

“I understand why you perhaps didn’t want to tell me, but why did no one tell Feyre?”

At this Rhys’s gaze drifted to Azriel, who crossed his arms, face going black.

“What makes you so sure she doesn’t already know?”

Rhys’s lips flattened to a thin line.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Az. Feyre and I don’t keep secrets from one another.”

Part of Cassian felt guilty for having concealed it, but when he considered how Feyre and her formidable power were likely to react to the news, the apology died on his tongue. Remorseful as he was, he still didn’t want to lose his balls over it.

“We did it for Feyre’s sake,” Azriel admitted finally, sparing Cassian from having to respond. Even now he showed such loyalty. Cassian didn’t feel worthy of it, and he felt nauseous and light-headed again. “You know how Nesta can be when she’s upset.”

“Well I’m telling her now,” Rhys said with finality, straightening the lapels of his midnight tunic before glancing up at Cassian. “So I would prepare yourself. When I do, you’ll have three angry Archeron women to contend with. The party starts at sundown. See you there.”

Cassian grit his teeth. The idea of having to go to a party when he was in this rough of shape had his throat burning with bile again.

“I’m not in the mood to revel.”

“Well this isn’t about you,” Rhys snapped. “And unless you want the Mor to be mad at you as well, I suggest you pull yourself together.”

With that he swept out, Azriel on his heels before Cassian could make another apology. When he was alone, he slumped onto the sofa, put his head between his knees, and coughed up another mouthful of foul pink liquid onto the fine Velarisian rug.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

“Get up, girl. You’ve been hiding in that bed long enough.”

Nesta rolled away from where Amren stood at the far side of the bed, hands on her slender hips.

“I’m not hiding,” Nesta said, pulling the  soft fur blanket closer to her face.  

“You could have fooled me,” Amren countered, ripping the blanket off Nesta entirely.

Nesta sat up and gave Amren a barbarous look, only to be met with a blank stare in return.

“You have to face him sometime, girl. You’ve had three days to sulk. Now is the time to get back on your feet.”

Nesta only curled her knees to her chest, squeezing herself smaller and smaller until her muscles ached and she swore she could feel her organs contracting to accommodate the position.

“This isn’t about Cassian,” she said, more to herself than Amren. She wouldn’t admit—couldn’t admit—that she still felt weak with grief.

No, not grief, she assured herself.

Fury.

Rage.

Nesta was many things, she knew, but never would she be heartsick. She wouldn’t deign to give that Illyrian brute the satisfaction. Gritting her teeth, she let her limbs uncoil before rising laboriously to her feet.

“I’m not going to that stupid party,” she hissed, ignoring the grating way Amren’s eyes ran over her, assessing every inch. “Morrigan and I are nothing to one another. I doubt she will even notice I’m not there.”

Amren rolled her eyes.

“Your mind games do not work on me, Nesta Archeron. You may play pretend for your sisters and the Illyrians if you like, but I see what’s in your heart.”

Nesta scoffed, feeling her embarrassment giving way to blind fury. Only animal instinct kept her from biting back, warning her that while Amren may have been high fae now, she was still dangerous.

“So what is it you think I should do, if you have all the answers?” Nesta said archly.

“There are only two things you can do: either you face what life has dealt you and learn to live with him, or you leave Velaris. Cassian is a member of Rhysand’s court. Your sister’s court. That will never change. If you cannot make peace with him—“

“I will  _never_ ,” Nesta snarled. “Make peace with that brute.”

Amren shrugged.

“I will not try and convince you otherwise. But understand that the alternative is not without sacrifice. This court faces enough problems already; we cannot weather an internal conflict if we are to face Illyria in the field.”

Nesta turned away, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. She hadn’t expected the naked sadness she saw there, and she scrambled to mask it with derision, even knowing Amren had already seen it as well. Looking down, she grit her teeth.

“I have nowhere else to go,” she admitted in a soft voice, loathing how defeated she sounded.

She didn’t see Amren as she approached, her eyes still downcast, but the latter’s grip on her waist was firm, and Nesta raised her chin to meet Amren’s gaze in the mirror .

“Then find a place, girl. You won this freedom you have, and this world is yours for the taking. If this is not the life you want, forge a different path.”

Nesta nodded, not trusting the lump in her throat not to betray her.

“Good,” Amren said, giving Nesta’s slim waist another squeeze before stepping back. “Now that your dreadful moping has been dealt with, it’s time for you to go to your sister’s. She’s had a dress made for you.”

Irritation rippled down Nesta’s spine, making her bristle.

“Which sister?”

“Does it matter? They love you equally.”

“It does matter,” Nesta snapped, fighting not to ring her hands and betray her lingering discomfort. “Because if I have to see Rhysand today, I will scream.”

Amren snorted as if she knew the feeling.

“You can’t avoid him forever, either. He’s still your high lord.”

“He’s not, and he never will be.”

It would be a cold day in all the hells before Nesta ever acknowledged Rhysand as anything more than a burdensome in-law.

“You can’t fight everyone, girl,” Amren said, tossing a cloak to Nesta before ushering her into her battered silk slippers, discolored from where Nesta had gotten sick on them three nights ago. “You’ll just end up driving yourself into an early grave if you try.”

Nesta considered this as they made their way along the winding bank of the Sidra. Nesta wasn’t stupid or irrational; she knew it was senseless the way she carried on, and all the petty grudges she held, but she felt as if she were trussed to a wheel she didn’t know how to wrestle free from. She constantly felt raw, like every nerve was exposed and chafing, and the pain of it drove her to do and say things that she later regretted bitterly. She hated herself for it, but she was resigned to the fact that she wasn’t like other people; something had shattered in her emotional making, and she’d been left with only two poles, fury and gelid detachment.

Only with Cassian had she ever felt any semblance of balance. She saw in him the same raging fire that burned in her, but she also saw the path he’d taken to master the pain that still shone in his kind eyes, and she felt hopeful she might find a similar peace.

No, she had felt. Not anymore. Never again, in fact. Cassian—for all his reassuring words and soft touches—was a cheap, whoring charlatan, and she would sooner die than buy into his brand of redemption ever again.

“Hmm,” Amren said from Nesta’s side as they walked, ascending the private, vine-covered steps that lead to Elain and Azriel’s secluded villa.

“What?” Nesta demanded, not deigning to meet Amren’s gaze as the latter assessed her with scrutiny.

“You’re still thinking about him,” Amren mused. “I can see it in the death storming behind your eyes.”

“He means nothing to me,” Nesta said. “He never did.”

Amren grabbed Nesta’s wrist, tugging hard enough to Nesta had to fight not to stumble.

“Why do you do that?” She said, eyes glinting eerie bright.

“Do what?” Nesta demanded, wrenching her arm away.

“Reject those who would care for you. I can understand why you would push him away, after the insult he’s paid you, but I’ve only tried to help. I would think that would earn me at least some semblance of honesty from you.”

“There is nothing to be honest about,” Nesta said, starting back up the path again. “He and I had a drunken tumble on Starfall, and then he went and rutted someone else. I’m only upset because for a bastard, he’s good with his tongue, and I’d expected to put it to use again. Beyond that, I could care less about him or what he does.”

Amren stopped walking as Nesta approached the door, shaking her head in disgust as Nesta turned to give her a salutary glance.

“I will just forget that broken, vomit-soaked wretch your sister brought to my door three days ago then, shall I?”

Nesta clenched her jaw and looked away.

“I liked that girl, you know,” Amren said to Nesta back as she retreated the last several steps to knock on the bright azure door Elain painted. “She might have been broken, but she was gentle, and kind like her sisters. That is its own brand of strength. You should let the poor thing off that damnable leash of yours more often. I think you might be surprised to find out what would happen if you did.”

Nesta’s throat swelled, but luckily she was saving for dredging up a retort when the door swung in to reveal one of the wraiths.

Amren let out a low noise of resigned disgust before shaking her head and turning away.

“See you tonight then, girl,” Amren called. “In the meantime, think on what I’ve said.”

Nuala pressed a cool hand to Nesta’s back, leading her through that the crenelated arch doorway that separated the entry from the rest of the house saying, “let’s get you in the bath, my lady.”

“Is my sister at home?” Nesta asked, following Nuala and trying not to flinch as she passed through the intricately-patterned walls instead of the doorways.

“Her mate has come to Velaris to meet with the High Lord. I believe she is spending the afternoon with him.”

Nesta’s lip curled. If there was anyone she wanted to see less that Cassian, it might have been Lucien. Despite he and Elain’s enduring closeness the last half century, Nesta had never warmed to him, or he to her. She may not have been particularly close with the Shadowsinger, but he was certainly a much better match for her sister. How he could stand to have the smug bastard around Elain all the time, Nesta would never understand.

Nesta followed Nuala, skirting the clear pool at the center of the villa’s interior courtyard before ascending the winding stair and arriving at the bedroom Elain had gifted Nesta when she’d had it build the villa a decade ago.

When Nuala disappeared into the bathing room, Nesta sank down on the bed. As comfortable and familiar as the space was, it always made Nesta feel a bit hollow. Elain had insisted long ago that any home of hers was Nesta’s as well, and though that gesture warmed some part of her, it had never felt true, not really.

In fact, Nesta wasn’t sure she had anywhere that truly felt like home. She’d bought a comely apartment for herself down the river a bit, but it was admittedly too large for just one person, and she fought it difficult to sleep in the deafening silence of the place. Nesta considered that silence now, even as she listening to the sound of the masons at work several rooms down, where they were putting the finishing touches on a newly-constructed doorway that connected Azriel and Elain’s suite to the empty bedroom beside it.

A nursery.

The thought ached in ways Nesta hated herself for.

_No_ , her pride intoned. Nesta was not cut of for domestic life, nor did any interest in it. Leave marriage and children to other women; her’s was a path she chose to walk alone.

It was something she’d told herself a thousand times over the last several days, and even as she began to believe it herself, she could not ignore that quiet piece of her that still yearned for the joy that would sleep beneath that very archway by midwinter, and for that thread forever binding her to the male she—

“My lady? The bath is ready for you.”

Nesta rose, shedding her clothes dispassionately before accepting a hand from Nuala as she lowered herself into the tub. There was a time, she reminded herself, that she hadn’t even been able to submerge her feet. She let that realization anchor her. If she could conquer the dark waters of The Cauldron, she could certainly conquer one Illyrian bastard.

She wiled away the rest of the afternoon, rejecting Nuala’s offer of food but accepting the wine and drinking several goblets until she grew drowsy and fell asleep.

When Cerridwen came to wake her to dress, the sun was gilding the sea beyond the villa as it set, bathing the room with a suffuse glow.

Cerridwen styled Nesta’s long hair into a simple chignon at the base of her skull before handing Nesta a mirror so she could inspect the wraith’s handwork.

Nesta considered, turning her head this way and that. It was the style she always wore, and it looks comely as ever. Still, it somehow felt—dangerous, like a tacit suggestion she was the same woman she had been that night on Starfall. Nesta had destroyed that woman—vulnerable and weak as was—and she would not tolerate the insult of being mistaken for her this evening or any other to come.

“Beautiful,” Nesta confirmed, handing the mirror back. “But a little plain. Do you have any pins I might put in it?”

Cerridwen wasn’t much in the way of vibrant emotion, but Nesta could sense her surprise. It was very unusual for her to wear jewelry of any kind, particularly in her hair.

“Of course,” she said. “My lady has a collection. She would be delighted to lend you something, I’m sure.”

“Thank—“ Nesta began, but Cerridwen was already gone, appearing a heartbeat later with a large chest.

She pulled open the lid to reveal a bevy of jewels and hair baubles, most of which spoke to Elain’s ethereal taste. As Nesta picked up and put down a number of floral combs, she found a set of solid gold combs tooled into conical points. When worn across the head, they would resemble a corona of spikes.

“These,” she said, depositing them in Cerridwen’s palm. “If you would.”

“Of course, My Lady.”

Cerridwen expertly maneuvered the combs into place before helping Nesta dress in the gown Elain had made for her. One thing she would always say for her sisters, there was no denying how well they understand her taste. the dress was black and long-sleeved, the slim-fitting velvet bodice giving way to soft tulle skirts. Nesta turned so she could admire the dipping back of the gown.

Let the Illyrian have their leathers; this gown would be Nesta’s battle armor.

Nesta stepped into soft slippers and left her room, pausing at the voices drifting up from the atrium below.

Elain was just descending the stairs, and though Nesta couldn’t see her face, she could see Azriel’s, and the look on it made her stomach ache. He looked half-stunned, half-elated, as if the gate of the afterlife were swinging open to show him his very first glimpse of the paradise beyond.

“You look so beautiful,  _сакана_ ,” he said taking her hand to help her down the last stair before pressing it to his lips. “I can hardly catch my breath.”

Elain gave a delighted laugh, and it was noise so joyous and unrestrained that Nesta’s throat grew instantly and unbearably tight.

“You liar,” Elain said without malice, nuzzling her cheek against his scarred hand. "This dress is hideous. I’d planned to wear one that matched your siphons, but I’m afraid it no longer fits. You son seems to have inherited his father’s strong build.”

She let her hands trail down his muscled arms as he pressed a palm to soft swell below Elain’s abdomen.

“A boy,” Azriel murmured, giving a soft huff of contentment. “Don’t tease me, my love.”

“Will you disappointed,” Elain said quietly, placing her hand next to Azriel’s on her stomach. “If it’s a girl?”

Azriel glanced up at her, hazel eyes shining. His brows were drawn, as the questions pained him. He reached up to cup her cheeks, and Elain’s eyes fluttered closed for moment.

“Any child you bear me is a blessing,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. “You know that.”

“I love you,” Elain breathed, and Azriel smiled in the way Nesta had never seen. In a way—she realized—he must have exclusively reserved for when he and Elain were alone.

A gelid envy slithered through Nesta’s gut as she watched Azriel press forward to kiss Elain again. She hated herself for it, but she’d always terribly jealous of how easily people had always found Elain to love. But then, Nesta couldn’t blame them for always for always preferring her sister’s company. If Elain was the Archeron rose, Nesta was its thorns. Still, for a moment she let self pity subsume her as she acknowledged how desperately she wanted what Elain and Azriel had, and that she’d been overcome when she thought she’d found it. That’s she’d been wrong—she didn’t think she could ever forgive herself for all the ways in which that disappointment had broken her.

_No_ , her pride upbraided her. She would not do this now. She would not do it ever, in fact. She didn’t care if the weight of it broke her back; she would not show weakness, even to her sisters. Squaring her shoulders, she took a deep breath and swept down the stairs.

“Nesta!” Elain said, breaking from Azriel to kiss both of Nesta’s cheeks as she descended  . “You look lovely.”

“So do you,” she said, touching Elain’s primrose cheek. “As always, you are glowing like a newborn star.”

Elain blushed, squeezing Nesta’s hand in thanks before giving her an assessing look that had Nesta bristling. “Nevermind me,” Elain said. “How are you? If you don’t feel up to going tonigh—”

Nesta pulled away, lips thinning.

“I’m not a tea kettle, Elain. You may stop watching me as if I might began to scream and boil over.”

Nesta watched Azriel’s wings twitch at her sharp tone, and something unpleasant twinged in Nesta’s gut at seeing how he was itching come to Elain’s defense, and at the realization she’d just snapped at the only person who ever came to hers.

It was the latter part that stung the most, so she swallowed the fire crawling up her throat and said, “Forgive me, Petal. I—haven’t eaten all day. I think my hunger is making me a bit sharp.”

Azriel’s lips pursed as if to suggest that no amount of food or spirits could ever dull Nesta’s sharpness, but she bit back a scathing retort for Elain’s sake.

“No apology necessary,” Elain said, gaze undimmed. “Shall we, then?”

Nesta followed them on to the promenade, watching as Elain looped her arm’s around Azriel’s neck and his great wings unfurled.

“We will see you there,” she said, and Nesta fell a white-hot humiliation rising at the realization they expect her to find her own way to the palace.

“What am I supposed to—“

“We’ve made arrangements,” Elain said, nodding over Nesta’s shoulder. For one sickening moment she thought it might be Cassian, and she savagely struck out at that small part of her that trilled at the notion. However, she watched as the night rippled instead, and she scowled.

Elain must have been more upset about Nesta’s rebuke than she let on if she meant Nesta to suffer Rhys’s company. However, the night soon gave way to glittering stars, and Feyre materialized, resplendent in a gown that looked as if it had been crafted from diamonds and moonlight.

Nesta stiffened a little as she watched her youngest sister approach, but she let her shoulders drop back down when Feyre came close enough, and Nesta could see that her eyes were blessedly devoid of pity.

“Hello, Sister,” Feyre said, her tone neutral. “You look lovely.”

“And you,” Nesta said. A long beat of silence unfurled between then, and when Nesta could no longer bear it she said, “what are you doing here, Feyre?”

Feyre pursed her lips, her expression still neutral.

“Is Elain the only one who’s allowed to care about you?”

Nesta crossed her arms, a gesture she hope would convey power instead of discomfort.

“She told you, then? I can assure you the details have been greatly exaggerated in the re-telling. It was nothing.”

“No, she didn’t tell me,” Feyre said calmly. “Rhys did, after he pried it out of Cas—“

Nesta stiffened again involuntarily, and Feyre broke off, clearly understanding what had caused the shift.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Feyre asked finally, her voice softer now. It was sometimes hard to remember, under all her power and steel, that she was still Nesta’s baby sister, the same one she’d held in her arms the day Feyre was born.

Nesta swallowed.

“I didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“Nes, I am your sister. There is no world in which I would be in anyone’s corner but yours. That includes Cassian.”

Nesta felt her indignation rising.

“If that were true, you would have already sent him a thousand leagues from here.”

“Is that what you’d like me to do? Send him away?”

“Would you do it, if I asked?”

Feyre’s jaw flexed, an almost imperceptible gesture. However, Nesta didn’t fail to note the hesitation, and she crossed her arms tighter.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you. Because you will always be Rhysand’s wife—this land’s mistress—before you are my sister.”

“That’s not tru—“

Nesta turned away, feeling overexposed and raw.

“There is no need to send him anywhere,” she said finally, having mastered herself enough to turn back and face her sister. “He means nothing to me; I couldn’t care less if he stays or goes.”

Feyre’s shoulders slumped, though she seemed to know better than to push.

“Tell me what I can do, how I can help. Please, I just want to help you.”

“I don’t need your help, Feyre, or anyone else’s!” Nesta snarled, composure slipping. “I’m fine!”

She watched the hurt slide into her sister’s eyes, and she sighed.

“I’m fine,” she repeated more calmly. “But if you want to do something for me, tell Rhysand to find me a position in a different court. I’ve been in this one long enough; I need a change.”

“But your family is here,” Feyre breathed. “And Elain will need you when the baby comes.”

“I am not a nursemaid,” she said archly. “Elain will manage, and so will you. Now please, let’s go.”

She extended a hand to her sister without looking at her, and after a beat she felt the warm slide of Feyre’s fingers against hers, and minute later they’d disappeared and reappeared on the sumptuous deck of Rhys and Feyre’s riverside palace, which was already teaming with guests.

“I have to go attend to Mor and Ellaria,” Feyre said, squeezing her hand before letting it drop. “Come and say hello when you’re ready.”

Nesta gave a tight nod, and she fought not to call out to Feyre as she glided down the steps towards the second terrace, where Nesta could see Mor waiting with her raven-haired mate. However, an odd panic gripped her as Feyre retreated, and finally she called, “Feyre?”

Feyre turned, expression soft.

“Cassian, is he—“

“I’ve told him not to come near you,” Feyre assured her, blue grey eyes glinting with the same cold steel Nesta often glimpsed in the mirror. “If he bothers you, you have my permission to cut his balls off.”

With that, Feyre swept down the stairs, leaving Nesta stand by herself.

* * *

Nesta had been disinclined to accept Feyre’s offer to come and meet Mor’s new mate and hadn’t been able to find Elain, so she started drinking wine instead. It was self destructive, she knew, but that’s what she liked about it; not the oblivion that swept in if she drank enough of it, but fact it gave her something concrete to hate herself for the next morning.

She drank several glasses as she wandered, watching in bemusement as entertainers swallowed swords and belched great lungful of flames while lulling music played. She wondered as she took her fourth goblet what she was still even doing here, and it wasn’t until she’d reached her fifth glass and watched a familiar figure descending the great staircase that it registered.

The realization had the fine wine turning to vinegar in her mouth.

She’d been waiting. Waiting for  _him_. She hated herself for it, but it there was no denying it as she watching him drawing closer, his eyes scanning the crowd. He’d yet to see her, and she wondered at her own stupidity that she didn’t disappear while she still had the chance. Still, she found herself rooted to the spot as his eyes finally found her and he almost missed a step, as if just the sight of her made his knees weak.

Nesta’s back ached with the effort of keeping her shoulders pinned back as he approached, but she reveled in the twinge, letting the discomfort anchor her as she forced herself to meet Cassian’s gaze.

_Why?_ she silently begged.Why did he have to be so handsome, and why did he insist on wearing the expression, as if he’d tear his heart from his chest if she asked it of him?

For so many years, she’d been able to keep both those facts in check, compartmentalized in a place so deep that most days, she could avoid them entirely. Now when she looked at him, all she could think about was the Ilyrian endearments he’d breathed in her ear while he’d been inside her, and the way—even without knowing what they’d meant—each one had been a gift.

_No,_ her pride chastised. She would not think like that. She wouldn’t give Cassian the satisfaction of knowing that he’d gotten so thoroughly under her skin. She couldn’t take back the fact she’d fucked him, but she didn’t have to betray herself by ever admitting what being in his arms had meant to her _. Good girl,_ her pride crowed _. Make him suffer. Show him how little he’s worth. It is the only way._

_Make him suffer._

It became her mantra, her battle cry, as she watched him approach. She would give no quarter, cede no ground. He may have won the battle, but she would win the war.

“Nesta,” he breathed when he was close enough. She could tell in the clench of his fist that he was fighting to urge to touch her.

So arrogant, these fae males. She could tell that some  part of him was straining for her, because she could feel the same thing beating in her own blood.

_Take. Claim. Keep._

She would do no such thing.

She turned, giving him a look imbued with every own of piteous distrain she could muster.  

“What do you want?

His brows synched in a gesture of unmated pain.

“To speak to you. Please Nesta, I—“

“I have nothing to say to you,” she said in a frosty voice, and though she willed herself to turn around and walk away then, she was once again tethered, almost as if there were something physical holding her there.

It was the wretched bond, she told herself. It had to be. She wasn’t prepared to confront the alternative, that despite everything, some part of her still—

“What are you still doing here?” she snapped at him, turning her head away and willing her fraying self control not to unravel completely. “Get out of my sight.”

He considered this, and her, before taking a steadying breath.

“No.”

She whipped back to face him, a blessed rage sweeping in to cull the pain.

“What did you just say?”

“No,” he repeated with growing conviction. “I’m not leaving. I know you’re furious with me and I don’t blame you, but please,  _Nes_ , just let me just explain.”

She felt something flicker in her chest at his tone, and she curled her lip, both at it and at him. She crossed her arms.

“I think I’ve made it clear enough how I feel about you, but if it will stop your pestering, then fine, go ahead. You have my full attention.”

Despite his plea, he seemed surprised at having won so easily, and his mouth fell open as he strained to explain himself. She felt some part of her straining along with him, desperate—despite everything—for him to provide an explanation that would account for what she’d smelled on him that night. However, that hope began to rot with every second he remained gawking and silent, and she imagined crushing it beneath her slipper as if it were no more than a piece of overripe fruit.

No more of this. She’d promised herself and her pride she wouldn’t suffer his excuses, and now that it was painfully clear he had none to offer, there was no reason for her to stay.

“That’s what I thought,” she said, allowing her pride to color her tone to a deep, poisonous crimson. The words burned on her tongue, but she spit them out anyway, too hot now to swallow.  “You are nothing but a filthy, whoring prick who has no excuse for his actions but your base nature. I may not be able to escape you, but I don’t have to suffer your insulting excuses, either. As far as I’m concerned, you are dead to me.”

He grit his teeth and gave a pained growl as he tipped his head back and drove his hands into his hair.

“How can you say that to me after everything we’ve been through?” he pleaded

This had her seeing red.

“How can  _you_  stand there and be self-righteous after I practically caught bollocks deep!”

She had to go. She could feel herself coming apart, and she would be damned if she did it in front of him.

He made another low noise in his throat, but this one sounded more like a whine.

“I have no idea what happened that night, but I do know how I feel about you. Please, this is all just some cruel misunderstanding!”

“What are you saying, that someone held a knife to your throat and made you shove your prick in someone else?”

“Yes!”

She bared her teeth at him, and he backpedaled.

"I mean no, but—“ another growl.  “I don’t know! But please, I can’t bear to lose you now. You are—“

“ _Not yours_ ,” she finished for him, her voice going humiliatingly thin. “I am not yours. I never was, and I certainly never will be. What we had—whatever that was—is  _finished._ Accept that.”

He bowed his head.

“How can I? We're—“

“If you value your life or your manhood,” she snarled, blinking furiously to clear her blurred vision. “You will not finish that sentence.”

“Please,” he said. “Just give me some way to make this right.”

“No,”she choked out, turning her back to him so he couldn’t see her tears. “Never.”

He was silent so long that were it not for his scent—masculine and assuring—she might have thought he’d left.

“I’m sorry,” he finally breathed, and though she could feel him straining for her, he made no move to come any closer. “I don’t know if you’ve ever even know how much.”

She couldn’t quite stifle the sob that welled up, but she tensed when she sensed him take a step in her direction.

“Go away,” she said.

“I can’t just leave you—“

“Get  _out_ ,” she snarled retreating several steps and pressing a hand to a nearby tree to steady herself.

“If you change your mind, I’m here,” he said, voice as gentle as it had been that morning he’d held her in his arms. The memory of it send another jagged sob clawing up her throat. “I will never stop waiting for you.”

She didn’t respond—mostly because she couldn’t—and it was only through sheer force of will that she managed to remain on her feet until he’d gone. When she was sure she was alone, she fell into a crouch and began to sob.

* * *

“Tell me again why it has to be you that goes to meet him.”

Azriel turned from where he stood fastening his leathers to smile at Elain, who still lay among the nest of pillows and blankets on their bed.

“You know why, askim,” he said, grabbing her upraised foot by the ankle and kissing the sole. “But I won’t be gone for more than I few days, I promise.”

She only frowned in response.

“I don’t trust this prince. This could be a trap disguised as a formal parlay.”

“I don’t disagree,” he said. “But the realm needs peace. If it means I must take this risk to get it, it’s a sacrifice I’m happy to make.”

Elain’s brows synched as she uncoiled to her feet, coming forward to grab his cheeks in her hands.

“Don’t forget your vows to me, Husband. Your life is no longer yours to gamble as you see fit. You’re mine now, and I—“ she paused, pressing his hand to her bare belly. “— _we_ need you.”

Azriel knelt in response, pressing his lips to Elain’s navel before resting his chin on it so he could look up at her.

“I know that. And I’m not afraid of some braying pup, even if he does wish me harm.”

“You shouldn’t underestimate him,” she chided, running her hands through his hair as he pressed his ear to the part of her stomach that still remained flat. “Remember who it was that killed the King of Hybern.”

At this he gave an appreciative chuckle, but she pressed on.

“And this Adan isn’t some green foot soldier. He wears nine siphons. That’s two more than—“

“Thank you, Wife,” Azriel said, rising to his feet. “I know his power is theoretically greater than mine. I promise I need no reminding.”

“I don’t need you to simply know it; I need you to respect it.”

“I do,” Azriel said, touching her cheek. “And besides, my spies tell me there is no danger. We should remain optimistic that Adan wants the same thing we do—an end to this cold war.”

Elain released a tight breath, shoulders dropping in relief as she turned to fetch his pauldron and fasten in for him.

“What is it you think he’ll ask for return for opening his borders?”

“Legitimization of his title of Şehzade of the region, most likely. Possibility a delegate at the Hewn City.”

Elain nodded, retrieving Truth-Teller now and looping the sheath around his thigh.

“That seems reasonable.”

“Rhys’s given me very generous terms to offer. Like I said, it shouldn’t be more than a few days.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Elain said, casually brushing her knuckles against him through his trousers as she tightened the synch on the blade’s holster. Azriel hissed in pleasure, and Elain moved her hand with more intention until he was fully seated in her palm. “I grow…restless when you’re away.”

Azriel groaned, feeling his body react as she palmed him again.

“Or you could simply stay here,” she breathed onto his lips, her fingers trailing back up, ghosting along the seam of his tightening leathers. “In bed with me.”

She moved to caress a particularly sensitive muscle in his left wing, mewing as he groaned and bucked farther into her touch.

He moaned again when she retraced the same path with her nails, half tempted to take her up on her offer and stay. Cassian was straining for some leash to wander after what had happened with Nesta at the party. Rhys could just as easily send him…

“If only, Beloved,” he said, catching her wrists and pulling her palms up so he could kiss them. “But I gave Rhys my word I’d go, and the Macarans are expecting me. It could be perceived as a slight if we were to send someone else now.”

“I know,” Elain said, deflating. “But it was worth a try.”

“For what it’s worth,” he said, catching her around the waist and nipping her ear. “You were very convincing.”

He ground the evidence of her machinations against her backside to emphasize his point. Elain gave a husky laugh before extricating herself. However, after a minute her smile faded to a pretty frown.

“I suppose if you do have to go, now is at least a good time. I need to be attending to Nesta, anyway.”

“How is she?”

Neither Cassian nor Nesta had seemed inclined to discuss what had happened between them at Mor’s party, but Cassian hadn’t left the training arena since that night, and Nesta hadn’t left her apartment.

“I don’t know what to do, how to help her,” Elain admitted. “She’s not eating, she barely sleeps, and yet she insists she fine. And Feyre says that Nesta’s asked for Rhys to find her a position in a different court. I worry that I’ll lose her.”

“I’m sorry, сакана,” Azriel said. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“There is,” Elain said immediately. “Tell Rhys to send Cassian away.”

Azriel stiffened. He supposed he should have seen the request coming, but that knowing had done little to dull its sharp edge.

“He’s the one who caused this mess with his careless philandering. Why should Nesta be the one to leave Velaris?” Elain said.

“There is nothing to say she has to leave,” Azriel pointed out.

Elain’s gaze hardened in a way that made Azriel’s stomach ache.

“You would defend him even now?”

“I know there is no excusing what he did, but he’s still my brother, Elain.”

“And she’s my sister! Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Of course it does,” Azriel said, smoothing his hands down her arms. “But I can’t just turn my back on him.”

“So, what? Are we just to be a house divided forever?”

Before Azriel could craft a sufficient reply, the Torre clock across the Sidra began to boom the hour, and he winced.

“I know,” Elain said quietly in response to its toll. “You have to go.”

“I promise we will figure something out,” he said, rubbing her arms even as her eyes remained downcast. “Until then, do what you can for Nesta. I think she needs you more than she’ll admit.”

She nodded, and he put a finger under her chin so she would look at him.

“Te cакам,” he breathed. “No matter what happens.”

“I love you, too,” she said. “Come home to me in one piece.”

Pressing a hand to her low back, he pulled her against him as his mouth found hers. She melted against him, and it took all the energy he had to pull away.

“I’ll see you within the week,” he promised, and with a final kiss, he dissolved into chilled smoke and vanished.

He tried to not to dwell on what Elain had said as he made the long flight to Illyria, but she words were a toll clanging in his chest.

_Are we just to be a house divided forever?_

He didn’t want to face the implications of that statement, but the longer he thought about it, the larger it loomed. It was clear from Nesta’s reaction that this mess was not going to resolve itself, and that she and Cassian couldn’t—might never—be able to be around each other. That meant one of them had to go. It would simple enough for him to let it be Nesta, since she’d already expressed the desire, but he knew how badly that would hurt Elain to lose her, and he couldn’t bare to see his beautiful wife so aggrieved.

But could he really ask Rhys to send Cassian away instead? He knew he wouldn’t even need to—Cassian would leave in an instant if he thought it was what Nesta wanted—but Azriel couldn’t quite bare to lose him, either. After everything they’d been through together, their family would never feel complete without him, and if he allowed himself to be selfish, Azriel didn’t want his son or daughter growing up without really know Cass.

It was a terribly thorny problem, but it always seemed to lead him back to the same impossible conclusion: he needed to them to reconcile. That was selfish too, he knew, to ask Nesta to endure the grievous insult Cassian had paid her for the sake of her sisters, but Azriel couldn’t help it. Besides, for the sake of their court, there was no doubt it was the best solution.

No, he knew it could never be. No matter what happened, either he or Elain would lose someone they loved to self-imposed exile. He could only pray they would find a way to live with it.

His wings were aching by the time he reached the skies over Kartal, a small but well-defended outpost that straddled the border between the Bereket province and Macar. It was there Azriel was to meet the Prince’s retinue, since Macar’s borders were still officially closed to outsiders. He waited in the ether until the shadows detected the Macaran emissary, and it was only then that he winnowed down, appearing a moment later in their midst.

The bevy of Illyrians gathered all flinched back slightly, several reaching for the hilts or their swords while others made the sign to ward off evil as Azriel fully manifested, the shadows billowing around him like a great cloak. For all their prowess in battle, Illyrians were extremely superstitious, and though Azriel had promised Rhysand he would be on his best behavior, he couldn’t help but revel in this one opportunity to put them on their heels.

“Which of you is Lazar?” he asked calmly, listening as the shadow hovering at his right ear indicated a relatively fair-hair youth at the back of the band.

“I am,” the male said, stepping forward. He had a pair of pale green eyes—a rare but present trait in the Illyrian blood—and they were striking against the dusky complexion that was more typical of their race. “Welcome to Illyria, Shadowsinger.”

Lazar placed a hand on his chest in gesture of deference, but Azriel assumed it was less to show his respect as it was to display the single emerald siphon set into his gauntlet. A silent reminder that the prince kept elite company.

“You may call me Azriel,” he said, repeating the gesture in a similar display of his own siphon.

“Then you must call me Lazar,” the boy said, grinning. It as an easy thing—light and infectious—but it didn’t quite hide the shrewd edge in his eyes. “I’m Adan’s cousin. He regrets that he couldn’t be here to greet you in person, but he bid me take you back to Ejderha Castle and show you ever Illyrian hospitality.”

Azriel did not fail to notice the continual distinction Lazar made between Azriel and the Macarans, as if he himself had not been born to one of their ruling houses. Still, he couldn’t bring it in himself to care. He’d never had any desire to be liked or accepted by these people, and he never would.

“Shall we fly, or are you too fatigued?”

Azriel fought the curling in his lip and simply unfurled his wings in answer, earning another blithe but edged smile from Lazar. He would be the one to watch out for.

Azriel could feel when they crossed the border into Macar, and he fought down a shudder at the memories. The days shut up in his father’s house, the unbearable relief on his mother’s face every time she was allowed to hold him. The Illyrians forcing his burning hands into the snow to extinguish the flames as he screamed—

He shook his head. He wasn’t that boy anymore, and he had a job to do.

They landed outside a great stone behemoth a short while later, the early evening glow reflecting off the iron-roofed turrets. Lazar started up the stairs to the great oak front doors, Azriel and the others following behind.

The doors were pulled open, groaning, as they approached, and immediately they were beset upon by servants. Macar had always had a greater appetite for luxury than the rest of Illyria, and Azriel tried not to tense as a supple serving girl appeared at his elbow, offering him a glass of wine. He couldn’t help but see his mother in her face—not just in her swarthy Illyrian features—but in the soft sadness shining in her dark eyes. It was enough to make him sick.

“I assume you’ll want to bathe after your journey,” Lazar was saying, his own goblet already half drank as the others peeled off and he and Azriel headed down a corridor that Azriel assumed housed the guests’ quarters. “But we would be honored if you were to join us for a feast after. No one keeps a better table than Adan, even when he isn’t here to sit at it himself.”

Azriel rather doubted that Adan really was attending matters elsewhere in the territory and that he most likely just wanted to show Azriel he had to power to make him wait, but he decided not to push.

“I’ll be sure to thank him for his hospitality when I see him, “ Azriel said as they reached a handsome oak door and Lazar gestured them inside. “But it’s been a long journey, and I’m afraid I’m not much for revels.”

Lazar smiled, pressing a hand to his chest again.

“Of course. Then perhaps you’d prefer some more… _private_ entertainment here?”

He snapped his fingers and a different serving girl stepped forward. It was only then that Azriel noted her gown, which had substantially less material than the average Illyrian female’s attire. His gaze cut to Lazar, and he didn’t fight to frigidity that rose to the surface.

“I’m married.”

Lazar only smiled again, waving the girl back with a hand.

“So we’ve been told.”

His eyes glittered at this, and Azriel could the unspoken implication of exactly what he’d been told shining there. Elain’s beauty was legend throughout Prythian; he shouldn’t have been surprised word of it had reached even here.

One word. If Lazar said even one word about Elain, Az would damn his promise to Rhys to the hells and punch the smug prick in the face.

“Forgive me,” Lazar demurred after a moment, sketching a final bow, wings flaring somewhat as they did so. “I meant no offense. In that case, I will have food and drink sent to you rooms. Adan will be back sometime mid-morning, and he will be eager to greet you when he does.“

“Until tomorrow, then,” Azriel said, fighting the temptation to let his own wings unfurl. He had nothing to prove to this little maggot, and he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking he was even worth Azriel’s notice.

Lazar nodded, summoning the girl to follow him before sweeping out of the room. The minute he was gone, Azriel summoned his shadows.

_Go,_ he commanded.  _Investigate, but be subtle. The Macarans will be looking for an excuse to mistrust us. We can’t give them one._

They dispersed immediately, Nuala emerging in their wake.

“My Lord,” she said, and he gave her a soft smile. It was nice to see a familiar face.

“What news, seneschal?”

* * *

Azriel woke early the next day, listening to the shadow’s whispers as he went through his morning exercises and bathed.

_No great weapons’ stores or barracks detected, though the warriors who train here are all elites._

It was the report he’d expected, and he let out a breath of relief. No great cache of weapons. No hidden legions. Perhaps Rhys’s faith hadn’t been misplaced, and this Adan also sought peace in the realm.

He redressed in his leathers and followed the same serving girl from the night before to the receiving hall.

“What’s your name?” he asked her as they walked.

She seemed surprised by the question, but she didn’t flinch away from him as he feared she might.

“Tanja,” she said.

“Are you treated well here?”

She glanced at him, wings rustled softly behind her. It send a jolt of relief through him; he could tell by the way they moved that they hadn’t been clipped.

“Very well, thank you. Adan is—a bright dawn after many centuries here in the dark.”

Azriel considered this as they lapsed into silence. Someone could easily have set her up to say it, but the evenness in her tone seemed to suggest he meant it.

_She is not a bed slave,_  the shadows assured him.  _The Şehzade furnishes his court with beautiful females, but they are not to be touched_.

So Lazar had merely been toying with him. That was…rather telling of Adan, if Lazar was the sort of company he kept. Then again, it would be bad form for a Macaran prince to reject a close kinsman, even if he was progressive.

Azriel had no more time to consider, because by now they’d arrived, and his focus fell on the youth rising from the carved chair at center of the room.

Unlike his cousin, who’d been dressed in Illyrian finery, Adan was outfitted like a true warrior. He wore traditional fighting leathers who’s fit and wear both suggested they were not just for show, and a pair of wicked curved samshah hung at either hip. And across his chest—

Gods be damned. Nine siphons. Unlike Azriel and Cassian's—which were tooled into their leathers— Adan’s had been fitted into iron livery collar, and they glinted like the obisidean eyes of some terrible nocturnal beast as he shifted his broad shoulders.

He was not extraordinarily large, but there was something impressive in Adan’s bearing even beyond his siphons, and Azriel found himself—while perhaps still short of impressed—pleasantly surprised.

“Şehzade,” he said in greeting, touching his chest but not bowing his head. “Thank you for inviting me here.”

“An honor, Shadowsinger,” Adan replied, and he did bow his head, though there was no sarcasm in the gesture. “Thank you for making the long journey”

“Thank you,” Azriel repeated. “Your High Lord wishes to offer his thanks as well. He is eager to see peace in the Night Court again.”

Adan smiled, but it lacked the unctuousness Azriel had seen in Lazar’s face.

“Then he and I are aligned in our goals,” Adan confirmed, descending the steps of the dais to approach. He was the very picture of extreme youth—lean and vibrant—and to Azriel’s six hundred year old eyes, he looked little older than a boy.

Still, there was a surety in his gaze that spoke of born leader.

“Shall we walk? We have a lot to discuss.”

Azriel nodded, and Adan waved off his guards with irritation as they made to follow.

“Do you think I wear these to look pretty?” he demanded, gesturing to his chest. “Leave us be.“

When they’d melted back into shadow, Adan gestured to a side door and Azriel followed, his eyes adjusting as they stepped into the cold mid-morning sun. They walked for a short distance in silence, watching as a pair of boys sparred in a muddy ring below.

“Welcome home,” Adan said finally, turning to smile at Azriel. “Is Macar as your remember it?”

Azriel fought not to stiffen. He would sooner claim the Hells as home than Macar.

“I left very young,” he said instead. “I did my training in Windhaven, and then on the battlefields in Hybern.”

“Of course,” Adan said, folding his hands behind his back.

They lapsed into silence again for a spell before Adan continued, “I must say, you look just like your father. I was great admirer of his before he died.”

Azriel didn’t hide his displeasure at this. He wouldn’t.

“That makes one of us, Şehzade.”

“Forgive me,” Adan said, a sheepish frown flashing across his face. It was a face that Azriel had seen Rhys make many times; the gesture of a young ruler embarrassed to have spoken out of turn. “I meant no offense. I know your history with him is—complex.”

Azriel nodded and folded his own arms across his chest, daring Adan to ogle at his ruined hands. However, the prince met his eye instead, gaze steady.

“You should know that is not the kind of Macar I aspire to rule. Cruelty runs in the Illyrian blood, but that does not mean we should let it rule us. I train my soldiers to save their barbarism for the battlefield.”

Azriel pursed his lips.

“And have you seen many battlefields?”

“There was an insurgency when my father died and I inherited his title,” Adan said, careful to avoid the words ‘crown’ and ‘throne’. Those were the ornaments of the High Lord, and the High Lord alone. “Still, I will not pretend I am anywhere as seasoned as you.”

Ill-at-ease with attempts at flattery, Azriel only nodded, and they once again fell silent, continuing their ambling journey. They paused after several hundred paces to watch another bout in the ring, this one between two youths Azriel thought to be about Adan’s own age. Indeed, he caught sight of Lazar as he deflected a blow, and Azriel’s lip curled. So, he wasn’t as frivolous as he seemed.

“My cousin tells me that congratulations are in order,” Adan said finally. “He says that you are newly married. Tebrikler.”

“Thank you,” Azriel said, unable to resist running a thumb over over his wedding wedding band.

“You’re very lucky,” Adan continued. "They say she is a beauty without equal.”

Azriel’s shoulders ached with the effort of keeping his wings from fanning out. If there was one thing he didn’t want to talk about in this barbaric wasteland, it was Elain. Besides, he heard the implication. Adan had spies in Velaris, just as he had spies here in Macar. The hubris of it made him bristle. If Adan wasn’t clever enough to see that any Macaran spies in Velaris were only there because Azriel permitted them to be, he still had much to learn about politics.

“Permit me to assume, Şehzade, that you did not ask me all the way here to discuss my wife’s beauty.”

Adan laughed.

“Of course not. I asked you here to inquire about her sister.”

Azriel frowned, confused.

“That questions is probably better suited to the High Lady Herse—“

“No,” Adan interrupted. “Not her. The cauldron-born. Nesta.”

Azriel only barely managed to contain his surprise, and he felt something odd churning in his gut as he turned to Adan and took in his steady expression. At Azriel rather steely look, Adan gave a soft laugh.

“Now perhaps you see why I asked you here and not the Lord Commander.”

Azriel grit his teeth at the implication that even the Illyrians had heard Nesta and Cassian’s story during the war. Nesta would be furious to hear it, especially now.

“What about her?”

Adan grinned, as if they were boys in on the same bawdy joke.

“Is she still unwed?”

“Yes.”

Adan nodded.

“Good. Then I wish to formally ask for her hand in marriage.”

“Excuse me?”

The smile on Adan’s face faded into an expression that proved he wasn’t as naive as he looked.

“You want peace. You want assurances that you can trust me. I want the same from you and yours, but that requires a gesture of good faith. Besides, I am told that she is very beautiful. Almost as beautiful as her sister.” Azriel was temporarily struck dumb, and Adan pressed on in his silence. “Tell the High Lord that should he accept, I would be willing to—“

“He is not the one you’ll have to convince,” Azriel cut in, finally finding his voice again. “If you wish to marry Nesta, it’s her approval you will need.”

Adan gave a bemused frown, as if the idea had never occurred to him.

“You let your females speak for you?”

“We let them speak for  _themselves.”_

“Yes,” Adan said, recovering with a somewhat sheepish smile. “Of course. Very well, then. When can it be arranged?”

Azriel considered, mind racing. Cassian would be unhinged when he heard about this, and he didn’t think Nesta would be very obliging, either. That meant Azriel would have to find something else to placate Adan with—or someone. The thought made his stomach ache.

“I will bring your proposal back to the Hewn City. If Nesta is…amendable, we will return with a retinue within the fortnight to discuss terms.”

“Excellent,” Adan said. “You may tell her I very much look forward to meeting her.”

Azriel thought of how Nesta would likely react to that statement and decided to say nothing. And to think he hadn’t thought things with her and Cassian couldn’t get any thorny.

“I will convey the message, but you should know that Nesta is very…traditional. I’m not sure if she will consent to a match with a male she doesn’t know. However, should she refuse, there are still great many things the High Lord might offer as a gesture of his good faith. Perhaps a position at the Hewn City would better suit—”

“I’m afraid I cannot accept anything less than this,” Adan said. “My advisors are urging me to marry, and I myself am eager to begin a family. If your court will not indulge me in this request, I’ll choose someone else. I have had many offers already, several from the most powerful houses in Illyria.”

Azriel heard his words for what they were—a subtle threat—and he grit his teeth.

“So please tell Nesta and the High Lord that I am…hopeful we might join our houses and be family,” Adan finished. “If not, I will be forced to make other arrangements.”

Azriel wrenched his arm away, not fighting his instincts as his wings flared slightly.

“I will convey your urgency. Until then, Şehzade.”

With that he disappeared, not daring to even breathe until he’d taken to the skies and crossed the border out of Macar. Seven burning Hells, this was a nightmare. Nesta would never agree, and Azriel would never to try and force her, no matter the stakes. Azriel pushed himself harder. He needed to speak to Rhys and Cassian; they needed to start preparing for the possibility of war.


	4. Part IV

## Previously on Like a Lonely House…

_“Permit me to assume, Şehzade, that you did not ask me all the way here to discuss my wife’s beauty.”_

_Adan laughed._

_“Of course not. I asked you here to inquire about her sister.”_

_Azriel frowned, confused._

_“That questions is probably better suited to the High Lady Herse—“_

_“No,” Adan interrupted. “Not her. The cauldron-born. Nesta.”_

_Azriel only barely managed to contain his surprise, and he felt something odd churning in his gut as he turned to Adan and took in his steady expression. At Azriel rather steely look, Adan gave a soft laugh._

_“Now perhaps you see why I asked you here and not the Lord Commander.”_

_Azriel grit his teeth at the implication that even the Illyrians had heard Nesta and Cassian’s story during the war. Nesta would be furious to hear it, especially now._

_“What about her?”_

_Adan grinned, as if they were boys in on the same bawdy joke._

_“Is she still unwed?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Adan nodded._

_“Good. Then I wish to formally ask for her hand in marriage.”_

##  **Part IV**

Cassian let out a tight breath, ignoring the burning in his lungs as he punched the sparring pad set up before him. He’d been at it since dawn, the bandages he’d wrapped around his knuckles tinted crimson from his exertions. Still, he didn’t relent.

He’d tried to keep busy after his confrontation with Nesta, but time had warped since her dismissal, yawning out before him like the maw of some hideous beast. Nothing he did seemed to fill the void. Not training, or scouting, or lounging with Mor and drinking in the resplendent gardens at the villa. Every breath he wasn’t in furious motion, he could hear Nesta’s sobs after she’d ordered him away.

It destroyed him that he’d hurt her in that way, and it was a wound so deep he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to recover.

And that was to say nothing of the bond that now stretched between them. Her end remained wintery and dark,  her frosted anger so palpable that he was wracked with shivers every time he tried to delve into it. Still, the bond beat in his blood in every quiet moment, urging Cassian to seek her out and make her his.

He still dreamed of her body writhing in pleasure beneath his, still woke every morning with her scent in his nose. The bond was chemical, he knew—something inorganic inside of him that cared more about continuing bloodlines than love or affection—but that didn’t make the instincts any harder to ignore.

He paused in his assault on the bag only when he felt a shadowed presence at his back, lingering at the door of his private training arena. He turned to find Cerridwen quietly waiting for his attention.

“Any news?” He asked, wincing as he unwrapped his hands to survey his tattered knuckles.

The wraith inclined her head.

“The Lord of Shadows has returned from Illyria, and your presence has been requested at the villa.”

Cassian’s head snapped up.

“He’s back from Macar already? He just left yesterday.”

Cerridwen only nodded her head in acknowledgment.

“Did he say anything about the meeting?”

“I suspect it’s why you’ve been summoned,” she said.

He didn’t know why he was bothering to press her; she and her sister were loyal to a fault. They would never repeat anything Az told them, even if it was something Cassian ought to know.

“Thank you, Cerridwen. You can tell the others I will be along within the hour.”

The wraith nodded, fading from the room as if she made of no more shadow and wind. Cassian departed quickly after she did, bathing and dressing before flying to the riverfront villa with still-wet hair.

He arrived to find that Rhys, Feyre, Azriel, and Elain were already there. They were speaking in low tones that suggested some sort of disagreement, and Cassian only caught the tail end of it before he ducked below the eave and through the open window.

“It will never work,” Feyre was saying. “We need to start searching for another avenue before our window with the Macarans closes.”

“That’s not for us to decide, my love,” Rhys said, tone neutral. “We have to wait for—“

“Me?” Cassian offered in greeting, not surprised as both the Archeron sisters stiffened at seeing him. Still, it hurt to know that in hurting Nesta, he’d damaged his relationship with both of them as well. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“You’re lucky you were invited at all,” Feyre said archly.

“You’re not late,” Azriel amended. “We’re still waiting for Nesta.”

“Nesta’s coming?” Cassian’s throat was suddenly dry. “But she never comes to these meetings. What’s going on?”

“Have you gone hard of hearing?” Elain asked, tone softer but no less edged than Feyre’s. “We’re not starting until my sister arrives.”

“And just so we know,” Rhys said, settling into an armchair nearby. “When will that be? I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”

“Not now,” Feyre chided, slapping the arm he extended to pull him into his lap. “This is serious.”

“So was I. I’m starving.”

Elain and Feyre both rolled their eyes, and Cassian took the opportunity to study their body language. Whatever it was they’d been discussing, it was clearly wearing on them both. And if it had to do with Nesta…he felt his wings twitch instinctual agitation.

They waited for ten minutes in silence, and Cassian found his nerves fraying. However, just when he thought to push again, the door burst open to admit a fuming Nesta.

“I’m not some dog for you to summon, Rhysand,” she snarled in greeting. “I—“

She broke off at seeing them all gathered, her posture going rigid as her eyes fell on Cassian before cutting back to Rhys. Gods damn him, she was so beautiful, even when she was raging like a tempest the way she was now.

“What is this?” She demanded.

Her face didn’t change, but Cassian could tell she’d grown wary. It went against every instinct to stay where he was instead of rushing to her side.

_Take. Claim. Keep._

“Would you care to sit?” Rhys said, gesturing to the sofa across from him.

Nesta glared at it for a moment before her gaze slid back to Rhys and grew artic.

“No. Tell me why you called me here at the crack of dawn.”

It was actually closer to midday than it was sunrise, but Cassian wasn’t stupid enough to point this out. However, before Rhys could speak, Nesta turned to Azriel instead.

“I thought you’d gone to Illyria.”

He inclined his head.

“I arrived an hour ago with terms from the Macaran prince. He—“

“Brilliant,” Nesta interrupted. “I hate politics; I’m going back to bed.”

She spun on a heel to storm out in the same fashion she’d stormed in, but it only took one sentence from Rhys to freeze her in her tracks.

“Prince Adan’s asked for your hand in marriage.”

Nesta whirled back around, face bone white, and Rhys flashed a dour smile.

“Do we have your attention now?”

Cassian could barely hear over the roar in his ears. Fury rose in a torrent only five centuries of training managed to contain, but he felt his wings flaring on instinct.

“He  _what_?”

Azriel was there in a instant, a palm to Cassian’s chest to keep him contained. Az knew better than anyone what it meant to come between a male and his instincts, and it was clear he would sooner incapacitate Cassian than have him come unhinged in striking distance of his pregnant wife.

Cassian snarled his displeasure—ready to explode despite Azriel’s silence warning—but he was sobered by the look Feyre bent on him.

“You were invited to this meeting as a courtesy,” she warned. “Control yourself, or you can leave.”

Cassian pushed out of Azriel’s grip, staggering a step back in an attempt to master himself. Nesta didn’t say a word throughout the exchange, but the roaring in Cassian’s chest began anew as she cut a quick, alarmed glance to him. Roaring, not at the idea of her coupling with another male, but at seeing the female he loved in such obvious distress.

“Adan has proposed an alliance with our court,” Elain gentled to Nesta. “One that would be solidified through marriage.”

Nesta’s gaze had fallen to the floor, and she was silent for a moment before she finally glanced between her sisters. The only true allies she felt she had in the room, Cassian guessed. He swore he could feel her fighting to instinct to glance at him as well, and the fact she didn’t nearly drove him out of his skin.

“Why me?” She said finally, sounding not at all like herself. For all her games and clever words, she was still relatively inexperienced to dealings with the opposite sex.

Seeing her so off-balance had Cassian wanting to shatter something.

“You’re the only female in our court who remains…unattached,” Rhys said, and Nesta cut him a barbed look, desperate to master her unease.

“I see. So I’m to be auctioned away like chattel.”

Cassian couldn’t fight the snarl that spiraled out, though Nesta ignored it.

“Of course not,” Elain said, brows creasing. “We would never ask you to do that.”

“But you are asking,” Nesta said, posture growing defensive now.  “Isn’t that what this is?”

A tense silence reigned, and Nesta turned to Azriel, the only male she deigned to address.

“What will you offer him if I refuse?”

“We will figure it out,” Feyre cut in, but Nesta didn’t relent, eyes still on Azriel.

“Besides this marriage, what else did the prince ask for?”

Azriel glanced at Elain before squaring his shoulders.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“You were—“ Azriel paused. “The only matter he wished to discuss. He wants a gesture of this house’s good faith, and he said he would accept no lesser commitment.”

“What else did he say?”

Azriel eyes flicked to Elain again for a heartbeat; the only sign of discomfort he would show. By the time his gaze slid back to Nesta, his expression was unreadable.

“That word of your beauty has also reached his ears, and he is eager to meet you in person.”

Nesta snorted even as her cheeks warmed, and Cassian felt his control melting under white-hot ire. The idea of some Nesta being ogled by some spoiled pup made it hard to breathe.

Besides, he knew how well-bred Illyrians like to cloister their brides, the Macarans especially. If she were to agree, he’d likely never see her again after the wedding. Even if he did, it would only be for the presentation of any children she bore the  _Şe_ _hzade_. The thought made him sick to his stomach.

“This is a mistake,” he snarled quietly, ignoring Feyre’s barbarous look.

Nesta’s head snapped up, gaze alighting on him for a moment. The faint, metallic scent of her fear had his wings twitching again.

“Is it possible this is a trap?”

Before he could answer, she turned back to Azriel to indicate the question had been for him. He fought not to bristle at the dismissal. Azriel, however, only gave a discerning frown.

“We would never allow you to go until the situation is thoroughly vetted.”

“You’ve the only one who was there,” Rhys said to Azriel, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “What does your gut tell you?”

Azriel considered, glancing at Elain again before letting his gaze flit back to Nesta.

“Neither my spies nor my shadows detected anything to indicate the Macarans mean to strike against us.”

Nesta considered, her jaw flexing as she ignored the six pairs of eyes assessing her every breath.

“And Adan? What do you make of him?”

“By all accounts, he is a magnanimous and progressive leader.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“The little I saw seemed to suggest the same. He treats his soldiers and his servants well, and he is beloved for it.”

Nesta went still as she deliberated this, and Cassian fought down another snarl as he watched her gorgeous mind at work. This was a hell he couldn’t have imagined, watching Nesta contemplate—

The pain of it sharpened when she turned the full weight of her wintery gaze on him, her stare a challenge and a blade. He fought to catch his breath as she spoke again, expression predatory now.

“And is he handsome?”

Cassian heart strained at cold gleam in her eyes, at the barb meant to humiliate him in the same way he had her. He’d earned it, he knew, but it didn’t make its sharp edge any easier to bear.

Azriel shifted on his feet but didn’t immediately reply. Even now he showed such loyalty, despite knowing Cassian’s misery was of his own selfish making.

“I don’t think I’m the right person to answer that.”

Nesta’s lips pursed as she turned to give Azriel a brittle look.

“Don’t be obtuse, Shadowsinger. It’s not a difficult question.”

Azriel flashed Cassian a guilty wince before twisting his shoulders in a soft shrug.

“He’s young, and fair of face for an Illyrian. I think most females likely find him—alluring.”

Nesta nodded, though the bravura had slipped from her expression. Cassian could see in her face—despite her goading—that the idea scared her more than it enticed her, and he felt as if her apprehension might tear him in two. Still, he held his tongue, knowing that any protest from him would only sway her in the opposite direction.

“You don’t have to do this,” Elain offered into the ensuing silence. Cassian could have kissed her for it, the barest inch of relief slackening the tightness in his throat. If there was one person Nesta would listen to, it was Elain.

 _Please_ , he silently begged her,  _I will do anything, go anywhere you wish. Just please, don’t sacrifice yourself to—_

However, merely Nesta pinned her shoulders back, already looking the part of a fierce Illyrian  _Ş_ _ehzana_. Cassian felt his heart fissuring and cracking, the jagged pieces cutting him to bits as she turned back to Azriel.

“You may inform the prince that I accept his invitation. I will go to Illyria myself and decide if he’s worthy; tell him I make no promises beyond that.”

“Nesta,“ Cassian choked, unable to stop himself. “Please.”

She turned her burning gaze on him at the outburst, and he felt a foot tall.

“You are the last person from whom I would take council on this issue,” she said, flashing him a hellcat’s sneer. “And my mind is made up. Make the preparations,” she continued to Rhys, turning to the door. “If this is to be, I would have it settled sooner rather than later.”

Feyre opened her mouth to argue, but Nesta was already striding out, so the former simply shot Elain a concerned glance instead. Wordlessly they rose and followed Nesta out, the door snicking shut behind them.

When the males were alone, Cassian fell to a crouch, his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, Cass,” Rhys said in a quiet voice. “Truly.”

Cassian only snarled.

“How can you allow this?” He said, voice straining. “How can you let her go?”

“You say that as if I’m forcing her,” Rhys said. “This is her decision to make. Besides, this might be our only chance at peace with the Macarans. If Nesta is willing, I won’t stop her. I  _can’t_.”

“Damn your peace, Rhysand!” Cassian said. “You can’t let her do this!”

Rhys squared his shoulders in mounting annoyance, though he seemed to be trying to hide it.

“Don’t rage to me as if I don’t understand what you’re going through. I had to leave Under the Mountain knowing that Tamlin—“

“That was a love match,” Cassian snarled. “not some sick political sham.”

Rhys went still at this, and Cassian felt the High Lord’s power uncoiling like a serpent poised to strike. When Rhys spoke again, his voice was night soft and nearly as cold.

“Is this your new game? Insulting everyone else’s lives because you’ve ruined your own?”

Cassian opened his mouth to retort before glancing at Azriel and falling silent.

As always, Az’s expression was impassive, but Cassian didn’t miss the cold shame in his friend’s eyes, as if he too was remembering what Cassian had said about Elain and Lucien.

“This is different,” Cassian said more levelly, turning back to Rhys. “Once she agrees to this, she can’t just leave if she changes her mind.”

“Az and I will go to Illyria with her. You have my word I won’t allow to match if I think something is amiss.”

“That’s not good enough!” Cassian said, his wings tearing from his back to flare out. “You’re the High Lord; tell Adan to ask for something else!”

“And when he refuses? I’m not going to war over your jealousy.”

“This isn’t about jealousy!”

“No?” Rhys said, rising from his chair in challenge. “You honestly mean to tell me that if you and Nesta hadn’t been lovers, you wouldn’t want a treaty with the Macarans?”

“She’s not my  _lover,_ ” Cassian snarled. “She’s—“

“I think we  _all_  know that is no longer to be,” Rhys interrupted.

Cassian’s felt his lips skinning back in a gleaming display of teeth. However, before he could lunge at Rhys, Azriel was between them.

“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice a soft warning. “Enough.”

Rhys sighed, the silhouette of phantom wings fading from the wall behind him. When he finally turned his azure eyes back to a still-heaving Cassian, both his gaze and his tone were steady.

“You made your choice; now you have to live with the consequences.”

“Go to hell,” Cassian grit out, wings flaring again.

Rhys’s mouth thinned.

“Rage at me all you like; it won’t change a damn thing. If Nesta agrees to the match and we can come to a favorable agreement with the Macarans, then the marriage will go forward.”

“Rhysand—“

“My mind is made up,” Rhys said, holding up his hand. “I don’t expect you to like it, but I do expect you to respect it.”

Cassian shook his head with a snarl, trying to fight down the urge to break something. He had to get away from here. Had to clear his head and figure out what he was going to do about this mess before he completely lost his temper and did something else he’d regret.

Without a word, he turned towards the open balcony doors, wings flaring as he prepared to take flight. He ignored Azriel’s plea he stay and took to the skies, unsure of where he was going until he was nearly there. His heart leapt into his throat when he landed in the hidden garden overlooking the city—a small patch of paradise he’d long used as a refuge from the chaos of the world—to find another figure sitting into the lush grass, her back to him.

It stunned him stupid to see her here, sitting amongst the riotous blooms he so cherished. He wasn’t sure why, though; despite all of their backbiting over the years, they’d always been of a similar mind.

Still, he’d forgotten that he’d brought her here once last spring, during one of his renewed attempts at wooing her. It had filled him with a giddy sort of terror to share something so private with her, but when she’d surveyed the clearing with keen eyes before turning to smile at him, he’d been glad he’d taken the chance.

She’s yet to see him, and before he could think of something prudent to say—something that wouldn’t have her running away—he blurted, “Don’t do this. Don’t marry him.”

Nesta spine locked at hearing his voice, but she didn’t turn, as if he weren’t worth the bother. They remained there for a long moment in corpse’s silence, and just when he thought she meant to simply ignore him until he gave up, she spoke.

“This is none of your business.”

“Nesta, please,” he said, and he could hear the desperation sliding into his tone as he pressed forward a step. “I will leave Velaris, if that’s what you want. You will never have to see me again. Just, please, don’t do this.”

At this she whirled, grey eyes glinting like a sword freshly forged.

“You honestly believe this about you?” She said, sounding half incredulous, half insulted. “About not wanting to be around you? This is bigger than both of us. If you can’t see that, Rhysand’s faith in your martial expertise is utterly misplaced.”

Some part of Cassian knew she and Rhys were right, that this might be their one chance at the peace that had so long eluded them in Illyria. Still, he couldn’t find it in his selfish heart to care.

“Even still,” he continued, bullish in his attempt to persuade her. “That doesn’t mean you have to marry him.”

Her lips thinned, something colder than anger shining in her eyes.

“Do you have a better solution? A way to avoid open rebellion and civil war? If so,  _please_ , tell me now.”

Her chest was rising and falling, but he realized after a beat of studying her it was sadness, not anger, he’d seen shining in her eyes. It broke his heart.

She didn’t want to do this; she didn’t want to do this any more than he wanted to watch her do it.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But we will—“

Her expression shuttered, and he knew he’d lost any leverage to convince her of an alternative solution.

“This is the only way—you know it is.”

“And if I had not—” he broke off, throat tight. “Would you still go to Illyria then?”

She turned her back to him again, spine stiffening. However, when she spoke again her voice had grown softer.

“Do not torture me with what-ifs.”

“What can I do?” He said, advancing step. “Tell me.”

She whirled back, throwing her book down now.

“Nothing! Haven’t you been listening? Adan will accept no lesser commitment than this. If I have to marry him to keep my sisters safe, then so be it. Besides,” she said, voice going hard. “It’s not as if I have any other worthy prospects.”

Hearing the prince’s name from her lips sent a cold dread slithering through Cassian’s gut. He made to protest a final time, but she cut him off before he could.

“I am done with your begging. If you wish to do something for me, then be gone from my sight.”

He could see in her eyes how much she meant it, and he felt himself deflating.

“Go,” she said, turning to retrieve her book. “I don’t want to see your face until I return from Illyria.”

He nodded, retreating, and he swore he saw something akin to yearning in her gaze as she watched him. However, in a flash it was gone, and when she turned her back on him a third time, he did not try and convince her again; he simply took to the skies and disappeared.

* * *

Nesta stood in front of the mirror in her old room at the House of Wind, hardly recognizing the woman who stared back. The gown she was to wear to Illyria had been hard to imagine when the dressmaker had first suggested it weeks ago, but Nesta had to admit it was exquisite. A bit extravagant for her usual taste, perhaps, but Feyre and Mor had both insisted this was not the time to demure.

It was made of supple silk, the sleeves sitting off her shoulders and falling nearly to the floor in what she’d been told was the Illyrian fashion. The neckline was relatively modest, but the back was of a more daring cut, dipping to her low spine and showing off the lithe muscles in her back. And the color—Mor had tried to suggest she wear cardinal, a color associated with glory in Illyria—but when the dressmaker had presented the bolt to Nesta, she’d balked and refused. The color had been too near to the slumbering flames of Cassian’s siphons, and just seeing it had her feeling sick. She’s selected a bolt of deep garnet instead, its color rich as finest wine. The dressmaker had assure her that under torchlight it would shimmer like a gemstone. It didn’t hurt, Feyre had added, that it was not too dissimilar from the traditional burgundy of an Illyrian wedding gown. Nesta tried not to dwell on the idea as she continued to admire the gown.

However, despite its loveliness—and how lovely she admittedly felt wearing it—it was her hair that had her feeling so off-balance. When she’d asked Nuala to sweep it into her usual coronet, Feyre had protested, explaining that it was Illyrian custom for unmarried females to wear their hair unbound. Nesta had balked at the idea she had to capitulate to such an arcane practice when it was Adan who’d asked for her hand, but Mor had pointed out that the other noble houses of Illyria were likely still seeking to marry their own daughters to the  _Ş_ _ezhade_ , and Nesta couldn’t afford to stand out in the wrong way.

“No one told me I had to seduce him,” she’d snarled, and Elain had smiled her kind smile and touched Nesta’s shoulder.

“In that gown, he’ll be yours for the taking,” she assured her elder sister. “But it’s best that, at least for now, we observe the practices of his court.”

“And think of it this way,” Mor had added. “If you become  _Ş_ _ezhana_ , it will be in your power to abolish the practice if you don’t like it.”

Nesta had stiffened at that. She’s promised herself she wouldn’t balk from this chance she’d been given to win peace for her family, but the idea of being someone’s wife—someone she’d never even laid eyes on—made her stomach roil.

She turned back to the mirror, staring at the fall of dark hair curling to her waist and the rather pointed color of the gown, sure not to go unnoticed by the prince.  She’d rarely allowed herself to imagine what it she would look like as a bride, not wanting to fall prey to the stupid whims that seemed to govern so many of her sex. Still, the few time she had, it had not been a prince waiting for her on the wedding dais. Her groom had been in Illyrian leathers, yes, but he’d been far from royalty.

Nesta bent her head, banishing the notion. She’s fought too hard to burn those stupid, pointless thoughts from her head. She couldn’t let them back now, when she was on the eve of something so vital. Tonight she had to focus on the prince, and charming him as best she could. The idea grated on her pride, but when she remembered Elain sobbing and shaking as she was shoved into the cauldron, she felt her resolve hardening.

She would do whatever it took to win Prince Adan over. She considered what the Shadowsinger had said of him, that he was fair of face and well-loved. If that was true, this would be easy enough to agree to his proposal and marry him. And when she envisioned the look on Cassian’s face when he watched her wed someone else…

Nesta grit her teeth at the unexpected twinge the idea caused in her gut. It should please her to know she had the power to lay him so low, to repay him in kind for the way he’d humiliated her. She hated that it only made her feel sick to her stomach instead.

She didn’t want to think about it. In fact, she didn’t want to think about him at all. Their business was done, and it certainly had no bearing on what awaited her in Illyria.

She pushed her hair over her shoulders, trying to ignore how alien it was to feel it hanging down her bare back. She wouldn’t think of that either, or give the prince any indication she was less sure than she seemed. If there was one thing she knew about Illyrian males, it was that they would take any ground they were given. She’d played that game before, and despite the knife’s edge they walked with the Macarans, she wouldn’t play it again. Not with Adan, and not with anyone.

On the dressing table a small clock began to chime the hour, and Nesta took a shuddering breath, glad that Elain and the others had retreated to ready themselves elsewhere. Despite how much loved her sisters, she needed this time to steel her nerves. Despite how much she loved them, she wouldn’t show them her weaknesses either.

Staring herself down a final time in the mirror, she gently gathered her skirts and made her way down the stairs to the main receiving hall. Halfway down she froze, mouth going dry when she spotted the lone figure standing with his back to her, glorious wings tucked in tight behind him.

Nesta’s grip tightened on the marble banister, hating herself for the way just the sight of him made her pulse race. It made it hard to breathe, hard to stand in her own skin without wanting to tear it off.

At the whisper of her gown he turned, a small rowan-wood box clutched tightly in his hands.

“What are you doing here?” She demanded in greeting, forcing her feet to keep moving.

Whatever happened, she wouldn’t let him see how his presence unnerved her.

“I….“ Cassian began, trailing off as he took in her resplendent gown and the jewels glittering in her ears and at her wrists.

His eyes glazed a bit as they moved from her bare throat to her unbound hair, and the expression in them had heat rising—unbidden—to her cheeks. She bared her teeth.

“You have no business here,” she said, needing to say something to wipe the yearning from his face. “Get out.”

“I came to bring you something for your journey,” he said, extending the box in hands she thought might be shaking.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she forced out, hating that it was a lie. “Leave, now.”

Instead of doing as he was bid, he flipped open the lid, setting the box down and extending what looked like an ornate hair bauble, studded with garnets and onyx gemstones.

“It’s called a  _јатаган_ ,” he explained, glancing down at it for a moment as if admiring the craftmanship himself. “Illyrian females often wear them for special occasions.”

“I have no need of your trinkets,” she snapped, wondering if one of the others had told him what color her gown would be, or it was sick coincidence that it matched so finely. “Keep it.”

“It’s not just an ornament,” he said, pressing his luck by taking a step forward. “It’s a weapon. The tines are sharp enough to pierce Illyrian armor, if necessary.”

“Are you suggesting I use that to assassinate the most influential male in Illyria? You’ve lost you—“

“No!” he said, brows furrowing. “I—of course not. I just thought you’d feel more at ease with something on your person. I know you, Nesta Archeron. You may have a courtier’s beauty, but you have an warrior’s heart.”

She clenched her fists, hoping he couldn’t read her expression. Much as she wanted to spurn him by rejecting the gift, she couldn’t deny that the idea of it had something settling in her chest. She knew they were thinking the same thing, about Tomas Mandray and what he’d tried to do to her all those years ago. She considered biting out that she was no longer the weak mortal girl she’d once been, but there didn’t seem much point; he knew better than anyone how nervous males still sometimes made her.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it,” she said when he extended it to her.

It was not the outright rejection her pride was demanding, but somehow she couldn’t force herself to say the words.

 _But you must_ , her pride intoned.

And yet, she didn’t.

He took her answer as permission to chance another step forward.

“It’s meant to be worn in your hair,” he said. “Discreet but easily accessible.”

Her throat went dry as his gaze rose to trace her dark tresses. She should say no, she told herself. Better yet, she should take it from him and see if it was as sharp as he claimed. Instead, she found herself turning so her back was to him.

At first he didn’t react, and she half-hoped, half-dreaded that he’d taken the gesture as a dismissal. However, after a moment she heard him give a soft exhalation, and felt the warmth of his body as he pressed closer. She hadn’t been this close to him in months, and it made every part of her come ache.

_Take. Claim. Keep._

She found down a shudder as he scraped back a portion of her hair, gently twisting it around the comb before securing it in place. When it was done, he stilled for a heartbeat before smoothing a lock between two fingers. She wondered if he was remembering the way he’d run his hands through her hair when they’d made love.

The thought made her stiffen, and he stepped back.

“Very well,” she said, desperate to regain her even footing. “You’ve given me your bauble. You may leave.”

He looked a bit stricken at that, but he nodded, bowing his head.

“Nes, I—“

“Don’t say it,” she interrupted. “Don’t say anything. Just…go.”

At this he nodded again.

“Be safe, Nesta,” he said, retreating towards the open balcony doors. “Please.”

“I’m not yours to order around. Go find some tavern wench to amuse you.” Some of the venom had slipped from her voice when she added quietly, “you’re good at that.”

She didn’t have to see him to recognize the sound of his silken wings rustling behind him, though whether it was in irritation of discomfort, she didn’t know. Moreover, she told herself, she didn’t care.

She remained with her back to the balcony until the boom of his wings had faded, at which point she slumped onto a nearby settee, resisting the urge to touch the  _јатаган_. She shouldn’t never have accepted it, and she didn’t dare consider why it was she had. Still, it made her feel more at ease, knowing that she wouldn’t have to face the most decorated Illyrian in living memory dressed in only silk and her own nerve.

She supposed in reality she didn’t need the knife. With her power, she could likely destroy him if he displeased her. She didn’t like to think about that, either. Despite how hard she’d fought to steal it, the darkness the cauldron had ceded to her felt more like a curse than a boon.

Just when she began to grow restless, she heard the sound of Illyrian wingbeats, and she rose as three dark figures appeared silhouetted against the deepening sky.

Azriel and Rhysand both retracted their wings as they landed, and Feyre’s vanished entirely as the four of them approached. Nesta tried not to stiffen as both her sisters assessed her.

“You look stunning,” Elain said, a hand absently smoothing the black satin of her gown over her midsection, more pronounced than it had been even weeks before.

“I told you the gown would be perfect,” Feyre added, and Nesta welcomed the opportunity to roll her eyes.

“Forgive me,” she said, voice crisp. “I’ve forgotten your medal upstairs.”

“I hope you’re not planning on being this prickly with the prince,” Feyre shot back with a smile. “Or you’ll have him running for the hills.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Rhysand purred, making Azriel’s lips twitch in response.

Despite Feyre’s jibe, Nesta felt herself relax. She wouldn’t admit it, but her sister’s good humor put her at ease somewhat. Joking about the situation made it feel less dire.

However, any calm she’d felt evaporated as Elain stepped forward to brush the  _јатаган._

“This is lovely,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

Nesta noticed Azriel and Rhysand exchange a quick glance, clearly recognizing the bauble for what it was. She wondered if Adan would know too, and if he would be offended. It didn’t matter now; she’d already made up her mind.

Instead of answering her, Nesta’s brushed a hand across Elain own honeyed hair, bound up in a chignon to signify her status as a married female.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you in black, Petal. It very becoming on you.”

“I didn’t want to have to compete with you,” Elain said. “Though I needn’t have been so vain. Feyre’s right; in that gown you’re without equal.”

“A lioness in silk,” Rhys added dryly.

“Don’t make me gut you, Rhysand.”

He only smirked.

“We’ll make an Illyrian of you yet, Nesta Archeron.”

“Isn’t that the point of this circus?” She snapped.

She saw Elain and Feyre exchange a look from the corner of her eye.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Feyre said.

“What other choice do I have?”

“In this house, you will always have a choice,” Rhys said, face more serious now. “Say the word, and we will find some other way to appease Adan.”

The others nodded in solemn assent, but she could see in their eyes they were thinking the same thing that she was: this might be the only way to appease him.

“No,” she said, flashing a soft smile to reassure a frowning Elain. “I want to do this. Besides, he’s handsome faerie prince. I would be hard-pressed to ask for more.”

Again, the others fell silent, and she fought to ignore the implication.

“We should go,” Azriel said, stringing a gentle arm around Elain and running his thumb across her rounded belly. “It’s time.”

At this Rhys turned to Feyre, drawing her lazily into his arms and kissing her.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said. “Take care of Mor and—“ he broke off glancing at Nesta before finishing, “the others.”

“Do I have your permission to punish Kier should he try to step out of line while you’re away?” She asked, and his grin grew wicked.

“You don’t need permission, my darling. You’re the High Lady; punish to your heart’s content.”

Feyre laughed, pushing his chest.

“Illyrian brute,” she said, coming to Nesta instead and sobering up a little.

“Take care of yourself,” she said. “And know that whatever you might think, this is still your decision. If you dislike the prince, you don’t have to marry him.”

“I do know that,” Nesta said, accepting a sleeveless cloak with a tall, jewel-encrusted collar from Nuala and slipping her arms through it. “But thank you.”

“Right,” Rhys said, shooting Feyre a soft wink. “Shall we, then?”

He extended a hand to Nesta, who scowled but accepted.

“Az, we’ll meet you in Kartal. I’ve arranged to have a carriage take us from there.”

Azriel nodded, wrapping his arms around Elain and disappearing from sight just Nesta and Rhys did the same. They touched down on hard-packed earth several seconds later, and Nesta smelled pine and snow on the air.

As Rhys had promised, there was a carriage drawn by four magnificent jet-black horses waiting for them, big enough to accommodate even wings.

Nesta couldn’t have said how long the journey took, her nerves too taut for her to focus on anything else. She needed to keep the panic she now felt clawing up her throat from showing in her scent.

It would be fine, she assured herself. Adan was the one who’d asked for her hand; she didn’t have to convince him of anything other than her own willingness to accept.

Too soon the carriage was slowing, and Nesta took a deep, steadying breath as a footman opened the door and extended a hand to help her out. When he saw Rhys, he stiffened, face going a little pale. So, the Macarans weren’t so unafraid of Rhysand as they feigned.

“High Lord,” he stammered. “Welcome.”

Rhys gave a cat’s grin, midnight eyes glittering.

“Am I?” he asked mildly. “Then why has it taken your  _Ş_ _ezhade_  so long to extend me an invitation?”

The male went impossibly paler, and Rhys patted him on the cheek.

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

With that he tucked his hands into his sable trousers and jerked his head to Azriel, who offered Elain his arm and fell into step. Nesta scoffed when Rhys did the same, choosing to keep her gown from underfoot instead as they made their way across the worn cobblestone courtyard to the forbidding fortress jutting out of the darkness.

“Not here to greet us, I see,” Rhys said as the guards and servants around them all bowed their heads to him.

“Did you expect him to be?” Azriel replied. “He’s an arrogant bastard.”

“How reassuring,” Nesta said, listening to what sounded like war horns blare as they ascended the stairs to the bronzed doors, which were being heaved open by two guards.

All eyes were on them as they swept into the massive receiving hall, and the reveled stilled for a heartbeat as a paige announced, “The High Lord, Rhysand. Ündomnare.” 

As one the assemblage bowed, a gesture which Rhys rewarded with a mirthful smirk.

“An honor,” he said, gesturing for the strings and drums that had been playing to continue.

When the crowded had settled somewhat, Nesta took the opportunity to study her surroundings. It was more rustic than anything she’d seen in Prythian, drab stone from the vaulted ceilings high above them to the worn floor beneath their feet. No tapestries hung on the wall, only unadorned weapons and a large banner fluttering over a high chair set against the far wall. A chair which—she noticed—stood empty.

“Gods be damned,” Rhys said, noting the same thing. “He is a cheeky bastard, isn’t he?”

“Is that him?” Elain asked, indicating a chestnut-haired male wearing what Nesta assumed was Illyrian finery coming towards them.

“His cousin,” Azriel clarified, gritting his teeth in contempt. “And a right royal prick.”

By now the youth had reached them, and he sketched a small bow before straightening to smile. It was an unctuous, insincere thing, and it set Nesta’s teeth on edge.

“Welcome, High Lord. I’m Lazar, the  _Ş_ _ezhade’s_  cousin. He was delayed in a camp in Antalya this afternoon and needed to freshen up after the journey, but he bid me welcome you in his stead.”

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Rhys said flatly. “I was beginning to fear he didn’t exist.”

“He begs your forgiveness,” Lazar said, hand to his chest. “He had hoped to greet you properly when you’d arrived. Still, we are humbled by your presence, and that you would grace us with your court and all its beauty.” At this his citrine gaze snagged on Elain and lingered. “Indeed, its charms have not been over-exaggerated.”

Elain shrank back a little from his leer, and before Nesta could think to lash out at him for it, Azriel had the lordling by the front of his leather doublet, hauling him nearly off his feet.

“Watch your tongue,  _Pup_ , or lose it.”

Lazar went pale, all signs of amusement slipping from his expression.

“I meant no offense, Shadowsinger.”

“Then apologize,” Rhys demanded, the gravitas of his station darkening his voice.

Lazar’s eyes slid from Rhys to Azriel, his unease turning his scent sharp.

“Forgive me.”

Azriel only tightened his grip, the shadows around him deepening from smoke grey to pitch black.

“Not to me, you unworthy wretch.”

Lazar only glanced at Elain for a moment before his gaze settled in the middle distance.

“Forgive me, my lady.”

“Lazar.” A voice called. “ _Me bihêle_.”

Azriel snarled before letting the younger Illyrian go, and Lazar stumbled back, needing no convincing to slink off.

Nesta glanced at Elain to ensure she was alright before looking to see who’d spoken. It was a male, young and impossibly handsome, and he cuffed Lazar across the back of the head before waving him off and facing them instead.

He was classically Illyrian, with glossy sable hair and matching obsidian eyes, and Nesta found there was something of Azriel’s elegant beauty in his face—the same strong nose, arched brows, and sensuously full lips.

If his Macaran features were not enough to signal who he was, that the livery collar draped over his shoulders certainly was. Nesta counted the nine onyx siphons as he approached and swept into a deep brow.

“My Lord,” he began to Rhys, still bent at the waist. “We are honored by your presence.”

Rhys nodded, and the male straightened.

“As we are by your hospitality,  _Ş_ _ezhade_.”

The prince put a deferential hand to his chest, even as he smiled, revealing diamond-bright teeth.

“Please,” he said. “You must call me Adan. And I apologize for my cousin. He is young, and often speaks when he should remain silent.”

“So are you,” Rhys pointed out as Azriel crossed his arms over his chest. “So perhaps you will take some advice from an old man; should any of you treat someone in your High Lord’s house with such disrespect again, you will find yourselves standing a head shorter.”

Adan gave a penitent gesture.

“Of course, my Lord.” At this he turned to Elain. “Forgive me for Lazar’s ill manners, my lady. You have my word I will censure him myself.”

He reached a long, elegant hand for hers, and Elain accepted the gesture, seeming to relax.

“My wife, Elain Archeron,” Azriel said by way of introduction.

“An honor,” Adan said, and she murmured the same, her expression still slightly wary.

“And may I present her sister,” Rhysand said, stepping back. “Nesta Archeron.”

Nesta’s pulse spiked as Adan’s eyes fell on her, their color nearly as dark as the stones in his collar.

“You are very welcome here, Nesta Archeron,” Adan said, offering a hand to her now. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived.”

Nesta willed her hand not to tremble as she slid it into his outstretched palm. She hadn’t expected such gentility from an Illyrian, even a princely one. His hands was warm and calloused, and for a moment the memory of hands not unlike his running over her bare curves flooded her. She quickly banished the thought, willing it not to return.

“I hope your journey was pleasant,” Adan said, eyes flitting back and forth across her face. “And that you find Illyria to your liking.”

“Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sure I will.”

He gave a soft smile at this, and she fought not to flush. She hadn’t meant to make it sound as if she intended to stay, but that was certainly how it had sounded. Still, perhaps it didn’t matter; if things went to plan, she would be staying.

“I’m parched,” Elain announced into the ensuing silence, giving Nesta a small smile before turning to Azriel. “Shall we find some refreshments, my love?”

“Of course,” Azriel said, threading a hand around her waist.

“I’ll join you,” Rhys said.

“And you, my lady?” Adan said, turning his dark eyes on her again.

Nesta fought not to fidget. Part of her panicked at the prospect of being alone with Adan, but if she wanted to win him, she didn’t have much choice.

“I’m fine at the moment,” she said, and Adan smiled.

“Then will you walk with me?”

Nesta nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Wordlessly she gave Elain her cloak, ignoring the others’ knowing looks as they retreated.

Adan offered Nesta an arm, and she hesitated for a moment before accepting, her palm curling around his bicep as he began to lead her away from the other revelers.

“That’s a fine trinket you wear,” he said as they walked, still smiling. “I hope I won’t give you cause to use it.”

“An ornament,” she said, ignoring the pit in her stomach that he’d noticed it so quickly. “Nothing more.”

“It’s lovely,” he said. “And it suits you.”

“You’ve just met me. How would you know what suits me?”

She wondered too late if it had been too sharp a thing to say, but it had been a reflexive response, and one she hadn’t been able to catch before it slipped off her tongue. However, he only laughed in response, teeth bright under the faelight chandeliers overhead.

“You’re right, of course. Forgive me. I only meant it suits your beauty.”

Nesta felt herself blush, unsure of what to do with the statement.

“Are you alright, my lady?” he said, twisting a little so he could peer into her face. “You’re flushed.”

“I—“ she fumbled, hating herself for being so terrible at flirting. “It’s very warm in here.”

“Would you like to go outside? I know a spot where we can speak without being interrupted.”

She nodded, and he smiled again, leading her farther from the revel.

“So,” he said as they walked. “Dare I ask what you’ve been told about me?”

“Very little,” she admitted. “Only that you are young to bear your title, but beloved by your people despite it.”

He laughed.

“The Shadowsinger told you that? I admit it’s a relief; I don’t think he cares for my company.”

Nesta’s lips quirked.

“I don’t think Azriel truly cares for anyone’s company but my sister’s.”

Adan laughed again.

“Lucky her.”

“Indeed.”

After a pause he continued.

“I was afraid that perhaps he or the High Lord would seek to poison you against me. I’m not ignorant of Rhysand’s vexation that I haven’t opened my borders.”

“Technically they are his borders as well,” she pointed out. “And if that’s true, why don’t you assuage him by opening them now? Rhys is a tolerant and fair-minded master; he wouldn’t betray your faith.”

Adan considered, dark hair shifting as he cocked his head slightly.

“Things were very volatile when my father died and the mantle passed to me. I needed to get my lands under control, and I did what I thought was best to secure stability. It’s easier to fight insurgency when you have control over who is allowed to enter your territory.”

“How did he die, your father?”

Adan’s face grew solemn.

“In the war against Hybern. He was shot down from the sky.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to forget what it had been like to witness warriors falling like a dark rain on the battlefield.

They were silent for a stretch as they walked before Nesta added, “And you? Did you fight?”

“My father said at five and twenty I was too young,” Adan said. “He left me training with one of the reserve legions and went in my stead. My battalion was eventually called up after the battle in Adriata, but the war ended the day we were meant to fly South. I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

Nesta fought not to wince. She didn’t want to remember that day, the way her father’s neck had snapped, and the smell of Cassian’s blood as he lay dying in her arms.  Sensing Adan’s attention on her, she demurred.

“It was my sister who killed the king. I would have been dead if it weren’t for her. What happened after your father died?”

“There was a coup, and my uncle tried to seize power. He did seize it for a time, in fact. I had to fight him to get it back. Even after I did, there was unrest. It took me nearly forty years of campaigning to establish lasting peace.”

“And now you have it, and then some. I’ve been told that most of Illyria now bends the knee to you.”

Adan gave an elusive smile, and she pressed on.

“Perhaps you can understand why Rhysand mistrusts you, if the other providences are swearing fealty to you and not their High Lord.”

“He has my loyalty; you have my word.”

“So you’ve said. What is it you mean to do to prove it?”

She bit her lip, suddenly worried if she’d said too much. She was meant to be charming him, not taking him to task. However, he only laughed.

“Gods, but you have a keen mind for politics,” he said. “I like that. And your question is a good one. As for what I mean to do, I’d have thought that was obvious by now.”

She flushed a little and the heat that had slipped into his tone, and he raised his eyebrows with a mirthful look before releasing her arm to open a set of iron doors onto a balcony. He gestured for her to go ahead of him, and she did, straying to the edge and feeling him follow.

“It’s beautiful here,” Nesta said after a moment, gazing over the balcony.

The trees around them where ancient and covered in a lush emerald moss that still shone in the low light of the braziers, and the air, though biting, held the fresh aroma of pine and snow.

Adan gave a soft huff of appreciation, coming to join her at the stone railing and admiring the tapestry of stars woven overhead.

“Nothing so fine as what you’ve seen in the south, I’m sure. Even within the Night Court Illyria is considered a rather savage and untamed land.“

Despite his words, Nesta could hear the pride in his voice. She watched, slightly breathless, as he tipped his head back to allow the wind to run its chill fingers through his hair.  She couldn’t help but admire how dashing he looked with his features bared.

“I like wild things,” she admitted after a moment.

Truth be told, she was half-wild herself, especially with the leviathan that now lurked beneath her skin.

Adan turned to grin at her, his face boyish despite its sharp angles.

“Then you will love Illyria.”

Nesta forced herself to hold his stare for a moment, trying to imagine what a life with him might be like. She would have to be blind not to recognize how handsome he was, and his obsidian eyes brimmed with intelligence and good humor. Still, the only thing she felt when looking at him was a longing for what she’d left behind in Velaris.

She flushed, looking away. She’d sworn to herself when she’d decided to come here that she wouldn’t think about him. She hated herself that even standing here with Adan, his offer an unspoken tether between them, she couldn’t seem to stop.

She realized the prince was still watching her, and she tightened her grip on the railing in an effort to master herself.  

“May I be honest, my lady?” he said.

“I welcome it,” she said, not sure if it were actually true.

Adan took the answer as permission to step closer to her, so near now that his boots brushed the hem of her resplendent gown. His eyes did not stray lower than her chin, but she could hear his pulse quicken slightly at their proximity, heart beating in time with hers.

“I had heard tales of your beauty, but none of them do you justice. You are—“ he considered her with scrutiny, and she flushed deeper, fending off distant fury at being so brazenly assessed. “Without equal.”

“Your flattery is appreciated, but unnecessary. I know why you asked for my hand. You needn’t pretend this is anything other than it is,” Nesta said.

“Perhaps,” Adan mused, face contemplative now. “But if we are to move forward with this arrangement, I wish to be clear in my expectations. This is more than a political threatre for me. I desire children from this union.”

He paused, wetting his plush lower lip as he studied her.

“More than that, I want a wife. Someone to share my bed as much as my title.”

Nesta stiffened, even as unexpected desire slithered through her, followed by a stab of guilt.

“Are you propositioning me?” she demanded, trying for more authority than she felt.

Adan reacted to her sharpness at once, giving her a solid look while still holding his ground. If he’d heard of her ungodly powers, he certainly didn’t seem cowed by them.

“Of course not. Not until we’re married. After though, I would like to enjoy you—often. I need to know that idea doesn’t frighten you.”

Nesta turned away again, needing to catch her breath.

“It doesn’t.”

“But it doesn’t give you any pleasure either, it seems,” Adan said, a frown playing at his sensuous lips.

“I’m just—not used to discussing these things in such bald terms,” Nesta said, tone sharper than she’d liked.

Adan huffed a soft laugh.

“Forgive me. It’s the Illyrian way, but I know it’s not yours.” He paused, seeming to study her body language before continuing. “Still, I wish to be honest in my expectations. I would see you bear me beautiful  _Ş_ _ehzane_  and strong Illyrian warriors, and I would have you naked and wanting in my bed every night.”

Nesta could feel him studying her bare back and she continued to face out towards the night beyond, and she fought not to shiver as his inviting masculine scent washed over her. However, when he trailed a knuckle down her unclothed spine, she couldn’t fend off a pleasured shudder. Shame rose to scorch her cheeks even as her back arched involuntarily. It had been so long since anyone had touched her, and she hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it.

“I could make it very good for you,” he breathed, pressing close enough that his lips almost brushed her neck as he continued in a low voice, “If you’d let me. Illyrian males are instructed in the art of pleasuring our females.”

Nesta’s felt a desirous flame licking up from her belly, it’s heat making it hard to breathe. She couldn’t deny that his words had an effect on her, but her curiosity warred with the feeling of oily wrongness buried in her gut. She brushed it aside, refusing to be ruled by the bond at a time like this. Cassian had made his choice, and now she would make hers.

She shivered as Adan ran a palm down her arm, gently shackling her wrists before guiding her hand up towards her own body.

“You would be easy to worship, Nesta Archeron,” he breathed, drawing her fingertips across her breasts and down her taut stomach in a feather-light caress. “I promise you that it is not an opportunity I would squander.”

Nesta couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, as Adan brushed his mouth to the smooth skin of her neck. She warred with herself, torn between pushing him away and giving in. She hardly knew him, she reasoned, even as he continued to guide her hand over her midsection, making her breasts tighten. He was seeking something that was not yet his to take. Something that—since Cassian—she wasn’t sure she was ready to give. Still, it felt good to be adored like this again, and when his teeth scraped the sensitive skin where her neck met her shoulder, her control snapped.

She angled her head to gaze at him over her shoulder and found him studying her with unchecked hunger. His eyes flicked to her lips only once before he leaned in, a hand sliding around the back of her neck to hold her in place as he turned her body towards him and kissed her.

His lips were petal soft and his breath fresh and tinged with sweet wine, but the kiss sent a sensation of innate wrongness clanging through her with such violence she felt her teeth singing with the reverberations.

She thought at first it was the wretched bond, but she realized after a moment that the feeling was too fragile—too precious—to be explained away by arcane biology.

This, whatever this was, wasn’t in her blood and bones, the way the bond seemed to be. This was something buried deep in her soul, something that had been cultivated by decades of fierce but tender companionship. It was a light in the darkness, a shelter from the storm that had always raged inside of her, and it every single part of her ache.

She tried to force the feeling away, afraid how Adan might react if he scented it on her. Terrified he would be insulted and spurn the peace that was so nearly in her grasp, she forced herself to melt farther into his embrace.

He made a soft, lulling sound from the back of his throat as he deepened the kiss. She could tell by the way his tongue moved against hers he was no stranger to carnal affections, and she felt herself choking on a sickening mixture of desire and panic. What if he did want to take her to his bed tonight? She wasn’t sure she could do it with so little time to prepare herself. She could only hope she could find a way to stomach it when the time came.

A fresh wave of dreadful anticipation hit her as he shifted her in his arms and she felt the male hardness of him brush against her through her silks. When he broke the kiss to nip at her neck, she drove a hand into his hair and sucked down lungful of the crisp night air in an attempt to steady herself. She willed herself not to think of Tomas, or of Cassian, and the way her body had reacted to a similar touch on Starfall.

Instead she thought of Feyre and Elain and the new baby. For her sisters, she could do this. For the safety of the realm, for a reprieve from bloodshed and loss, she could do it.

And perhaps she would grow into it over time, and the panic would fade. Perhaps she would able to forget what it had been like with—

She couldn’t fend off the soft, choked inhale that escaped her when he’d fisted a handful of her skirt, as if he meant to lift it. He froze, pulling away and breathing heavily.

His lips were kiss-swollen and his hair mussed, but she was relieved to find that he didn’t look angry. In fact, he looked somewhat stricken. Nesta tried to mask her relief when he took a step back.

He ran a thumb over his lower lip, brows creased.

  
“Forgive me, my lady. I’m afraid the wine and your beauty overcame my good sense,” he said, though a spectre of desire still haunted his gaze. “I didn’t mean to endanger your honor.”

Nesta stiffened, hating that flush of shame that bled into her cheeks but forcing herself to meet his stare.

“I’m not a maid. If we are to be married, you should know that.”

He laughed softly, running a hand through his hair before glancing away, back out towards the inky sky beyond.

“That pleases me,” he admitted after a moment.

She stilled, and he continued, gaze heating again as he turned back to face her.

“I have no desire to bed a virgin. Still, if you are to be my  _Şe_ _zhana_ , I will not have you the first time in a manner so below your station.”

He strayed forward a step again so he could brush a thumb down her cheek.

“Besides, I can scent your apprehension. Despite what I told you, I do not wish to force you into my bed.”

She felt her cheeks warming again, a heady shame flooding in over the guilt and pain.

“So let us get to know one another first, so I may show you what sort of male I am. If I am to have your physical affections, I wish to win them, not cleave them from you.”

Nesta tried to the flinch as he took her hand again, afraid to breathe and betray her unease as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. She wanted to share his confidence that he could win her heart, but deep down she knew it was impossible. It was no longer hers to give away; it hadn’t been since Starfall, and it never would be again.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling the restlessness in her settle when he finally let go of her hand. “You are more gracious that the situation merits.”

He grinned, chucking her chin gently.

“It’s not grace,  _kadin_. It’s hubris. I am too vain a male to have a female who doesn’t want me.”

Nesta swallowed, hoping to keep what she was thinking from showing on her face.

“Come,” he said, extending a hand to her again. “You sister will be wondering where I’ve spirited you off to, and don’t wish to displease her. Besides, I would speak with the High Lord to see if we might not have this matter settled this evening.” He paused. “If…that’s what you wish?”

She forced herself to smile, even pushing closer to run her fingers though his hair to push it back into place.

“It is,” she said, each word sharp and sour on her tongue.

Still, if this was to be her fate, she would rather face it than cower.

Adan didn’t seem to notice, and he smiled, teeth bright even in the dim light. “Good,” he said. “Shall we, then?”

* * *

Cassian had started in on the wine the minute he’d returned from The House of Wind, and he was nearly two bottles deep when Mor arrived.

He couldn’t stop imagining Nesta in that deep ruby gown, looking so like an Illyrian bride that he was sure the pain was going to drive him mad. And when she’d acceptied the  _јатаган_ —

He hadn’t had the courage to tell her it had been his mother’s, and that he’d carried it with him all those years, even when he’d been dirty and starving. That he’d hoped to give it to Nesta on their wedding day, should it ever come.  Despite the agony, he savored the memory of seeing her wear it, if only this one time.

“Is this your plan?” Mor said by way of greeting, breaking him from his reverie. “Drink yourself sick until she comes back?”

“Yes,” Cassian said, scowling when Mor snatched the bottle. “What are you doing here? I’m not in the mood for company.”

“Too bad,” Mor chirped. “Rhys told me to keep an eye on you, and I don’t want a lecture if you break your neck by drunkenly flying into the side of building.”

She sank down and nudged his shoulder gently, and he only snarled.

“I’m not in the mood, Morrigan.”

At her full name Mor frowned, handing the bottle back and studying him with care.

“I’m sorry, you know. I’m sure it’s not easy.”

“It’s torture,” he clarified. “Knowing she’s there with him, imagining him touching her—it makes me sick.”

“Maybe she’ll hate him and refuse to go through with it.”

“She won’t,” he said darkly, taking another generous swallow. “She knows what’s at stake. She would marry the Attor if it meant keeping Feyre and Elain safe. Besides, even if she did refuse to marry him, what would it matter? She still hates me, and I don’t blame her.”

“Be kind to yourself, Cass. It was a mistake; we all make them.”

Cassian let out a pained huff, passing the bottle back to her when she extended her hand.

“A mistake is buying a navy tunic when you meant to buy black, or eating another tart even though you’re full. This was—“ he broke off. “Inexcusable.”

Mor didn’t immediately respond, but he felt his skin chafing under her heavy gaze.

“What?” he snarled.

“I’m worried about you,” she quietly. “The drinking, this other female. It’s not like you, Cass.”

“Nesta says I’m nothing but low-born filth; maybe this is  _exactly_  who I am.”

“I don’t believe that,” Mor said, touching his cheek. “And deep down, neither does she.”

He brushed her hand away, not wanting to be touched.

“She’s trusted me, and I betrayed her. I don’t blame her for hating me.”

Mor gave a soft, sympathetic sound as he buried his head in his hands.

“Do you know what the worst part is? I don’t even know  _why_  I did it. I’ve gone through the little I remember a million times, and I still can’t fathom what is so broken and fucked-up in me that I could shame the female I love. And for what? To wet my cock? It makes me sick.”

He shook his head in disgust.

“Tell me how I can help.”

“You can’t,” he said in a hollow voice. “No one can.”

“I’m sorry about the cruel timing,” she breathed. I can’t imagine how you must feel with her marrying Adan so soon after—“

Cassian wasn’t listening. He leapt to his feet and began to pacing, a realization stitching itself together with sickening clarity. A way of shame flooded in at the violation, followed by white hot rage.

“What?” Mor demanded. “What is it? You look like you’ve just gone mad.”

“I don’t remember anything about that night,” Cassian said. “I don’t remember meeting the female, or taking her to bed. I don’t even remember ordering more than a single ale.”

“What does that—“

“And I was sick afterwards, for weeks and weeks. I could barely keep a meal down because of it. And in the meantime, Prince Adan breaks nearly thirty years of non-diplomacy to ask for Nesta’s hand?”

Mor’s face went pale.

“That’s a serious accusation, Cass.”

Cassian let out a manic laugh, humorless and sharp.

“And yet the only thing that makes sense! I would never willingly betray Nesta.  _Never_. Even if I didn’t care for her as I do, it’s in my blood to protect her.  Something physically changed in me when the bond snapped into place. There isn’t enough wine in the world to override those instincts.”

“But why would Adan want to marry Nesta? What does he stand to gain that he couldn’t gain by just making an alliance with Rhys? At this point, he has to know we’d give him anything he asked for.”

Cassian grit his teeth, the anger turning to a cold fury in his blood.

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out, and when I do—“

“You don’t know if this is Adan’s doing. He’s young; this could be one of his advisors pressing some unseen advantage without his knowledge.”

“I don’t care!” Cassian snarled, swiping a vase from the table and taking grim satisfaction in making it shatter. “The Macarans hurt her to achieve this end. They made  _me_  hurt her. That is not a slight that will go unanswered. She’s mine, and I’m hers. If I don’t fight for her now, I truly am unworthy.”

“If you’re right,” Mor said.  “You’ll need evidence. If we can’t prove Adan or someone in his court was responsible and we try and move against him, we could bring half of Illyria down on her heads. Besides, once he and Nesta are married—“

“I know,” Cassian cut in, unable to bear hearing he say the rest.

Once Adan and Nesta were married, he’d have little recourse to get her back.

“And if you’re wrong?”

A quiet, careful question.

“If I’m wrong, then I will let it go. But I’m not. I can feel it in my bones. I’ll find the proof; I have to.”

Mor’s expression was grim, but she nodded, rising to her feet.

“Very well,” she said. “Where do we start?”


End file.
